


Chasing Daisy Duck

by moon_opals



Category: Disney Duck Universe, DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Duck Hijinks, F/M, Good Dad Donald Duck, Good Mom Daisy Duck, Good Mom and Good Dad Fight Together, Romantic Comedy, Social Media, The Kids Help Their Uncle Dad Find Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24182983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: An unprecedented change occurred in Donald Duck.Observant eyes perceived the change, and there were at least five sets in the mansion. Five.Yet, none seemed to care.Except Louie.Seeing his uncle's dilemma, Louie decides to take matters into his own hands and seek his uncle's true love. Unfortunately, he discovers it's going to be harder to find a one Daisy Duck and even harder to set her up with her one, true soulmate, Donald F. Duck.
Relationships: Daisy Duck/Donald Duck
Comments: 117
Kudos: 120





	1. The Changes in Donald Louie Saw

**Author's Note:**

> As enter another hiatus, I thought I'd take the opportunity. 
> 
> Events this chapter refers to can be found in "After the Party Ends," but you don't have to read it to understand what's going on.

An unprecedented change occurred in Donald Duck.

Observant eyes perceived the change, and there were at least five sets in the mansion. _Five._ None seemed to care.

Not care? _No._ That wasn't the problem. Understand? _Close._ Understanding was always the issue when it came to Donald Duck.

Louie related to his family’s incomprehension. As he mulled in the houseboat’s living room, he lamented his consistent misunderstanding of his uncle. He knew it wasn't right or fair, but Louie couldn't remember a time when they ever did, at least, not in the way his uncle wanted. To Donald's credit, he never expressed this as vehemently as the night of Emma Glamour’s It List party.

But despite not understanding him and deeming the act almost impossible, Louie understood something wasn't right.

With a sigh, he rolled off the sofa and waltzed to the kitchen where Uncle Donald was, hunched over an aged, dusty laptop at the table. He purchased it two and a half years ago when he decided to go back to school for accounting.

Louie opened the refrigerator and found the strawberry pep in the back. Uncle Donald always seemed to know where the strawberry pep was found, let alone getting it at the right time. Louie loved that man.

He popped it open, bringing the cold rim to his lips. Instead of returning to the direct path back to the sofa, he strolled behind the chair where his uncle sat. Uncle Donald was attentive on the screen, grumbling to himself as he typed before backspacing. 

Louie had no reason to question this behavior. It was normal. It was expected. Aside from the public library, Donald’s outdated Pacbook was part of the reason he earned his accounting degree.

An assumption led him to believe nothing was amiss. _He must have another online class_ , Louie guessed, slurping his drink idly, _hopefully, it’s in communications._ He lowered the can and smacked his beak, satisfied. But as he admired the can’s decorative design, he happened to look over his uncle’s shoulder. 

Muzzlebook stood out in prominent, bold white letters. He moved a little to the left, reading the word registration at the top of the page in smaller, less bold but noticeable black print. Louie’s brow curled. Absently slurping his drink, he pulled it away and stared at his uncle. His brow was furrowed. He grumbled incoherently. His attention was squared on the keyboard.

“What are you doing,” Louie asked.

“What?!” Donald squawked, spinning around so quickly he lost his balance and fell backwards onto the floor. “Nothing! Nothing! I’m doing nothing.”

Before Louie had a chance to read the rest of the webpage’s contents, Donald had scrambled to the laptop, slamming it shut. A frenzied glaze covered his face, but that didn’t draw Louie’s attention. 

“Uncle Donald,” he said, staring at the close laptop, “I think you cracked the screen.”

Whatever had alarmed Donald, be it the webpage or what being in the webpage meant, spooked him to the degree where he hadn’t considered his own strength. Donald’s pale faced response told Louie that his uncle wasn’t ready to see the damage he’d done to his long time companion. But there was no stopping it.

“Uncle Donald?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want me to leave?”

Donald slumped in the chair. A dejected coat had overcome his face, aging him in seconds. “No, you can stay.”

For some reason, maybe the way it was said, Louie was moved. Sadly, compassionately. Whatever his uncle was doing was important to him.

“Maybe I can help.” He set the drink on the table. “I know -,”

“Louie,” Donald inhaled, softly, “not now.”

 _Not now_...right, and Louie didn’t argue this time. He picked up his drink, quietly removing himself from the situation. Later, there was no discussion about the broken laptop or Muzzlebook. At his uncle’s unspoken request, Louie didn’t bring it up.

* * *

But that didn’t kill the suspicious seeds growing in Louie’s mind. In fact, the discovery properly fertilized Louie’s interest. He observed without knowing why.

Whether through intentional or unintentional means, Donald Duck was a transparent man; however, prioritizing his family’s obliviousness was important to him. When that couldn’t be achieved, he appreciated a little sensitivity to his privacy. So Louie was.

Until Donald started to drift.

This wasn’t too unwarranted. His uncle drifted occasionally, staring off in some random, adjacent location for reasons unknown. When jolted back to reality, through natural means or Dewey’s carelessness, the family was keen on dismissing it as one of Uncle Donald’s oddities.

Being a child dosed in retrospect, Louie connected the dots, realizing many of the drifts were related to his mom, their grand uncle and The Spear of Selene, but Della’s return neared its first anniversary. The family was closer than ever, meaning Della in the traditional sense didn’t occupy his thoughts in the same capacity.

So what did?

Observing these instances at a distance was the best way to accumulate knowledge and to plan. Uncle Donald was smart enough not to fall into that habit around the family or during an adventure, though Louie sensed he couldn’t help but drift when the hour was quiet and stilled. 

Admittedly, the family was often lost in their own interests to pay close attention to Donald. They didn’t notice the way his stare seemed to cloud over, and a dopey, drunken smile curled on his beak. Although small, the smile was large enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes, and sometimes, rarely, he’d sigh. 

Such a sigh occurred during breakfast. The family sat together at the table, each encroaching in the other’s conversation. It was this sigh, Louie realized, that turned the tables he’d been plotting on. Uncle Donald’s hiked shoulders trembled the moment the breath expelled in one, giant huff.

“Daisy,” he whispered.

“Daisy,” Louie mouthed, confused. “Daisy?”

Daisy Duck, the no-nonsense party planner and dangerously efficient personal assistant, was the name his uncle muttered in what Louie would call a _dreamy_ tone. It didn’t take him more than a minute, which was thirty seconds later than Louie would’ve liked, for him to understand what _Daisy_ signified. 

“Oh,” Louie murmured, quietly. “Oh.”

Buttermilk pancakes, bacon and sunny side up eggs were forgotten; he was numb to the sharp tug on his sleeve, reacting when the tug escalated to incessant taps on his shoulder. 

“Louie,” Dewey asked, confusion drawn. 

“What?”

“Why does Uncle Donald look like he’s about to throw up his oatmeal?”

Louie forced the knot in his throat to compress, but at the same time, an idea sprang to mind. He smiled, a childish curl that made no promises but promised mischief all the same, even if the latter wasn’t his intention.

“I don’t know, my dear Dewford,” he replied, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, “but we’re going to find out.”

* * *

June Duck was bored.

Boredom for children was expected to a stereotypical degree; their bodies were restless with unused energy. However, the actual child in the room was tucked away in her playpen for a nap.

June had turned twenty this past spring, and though bored, she didn’t have much reason for it. Standing atop a stool with her arms spread straight and back in a similar position, she held her breath as her aunt tugged, pulled, fastened and stitched her vision onto the dress she designed.

That she - June - was currently modeling.

“Aunt Daisy,” June drawled in what one would describe whiny, “you said it’d take only a minute. I have things to do.”

“Like sleep,” came Daisy’s muffled reply. 

“Yes, exactly that.” 

June wasn’t ashamed to admit that. She was a junior at Rockerduck University, a private research university in Duckburg and one of the top medical research schools in the country. When she wasn't studying or participating in Delta Si Mu sorority functions, she slept. A lot. Who could blame her?

“But you promised sweetie,” came a doting voice near the playpen, but unlike her sister below, this woman was hunched over an updated Pacbook. “And you know my hip area is far too generous for Daisy’s collection.”

Aunt Daisy spared her sister a side glance, choosing to continue her work. “Daffi, what are you doing?”

“What?”

“I know you’re not checking your spreadsheets.”

“No, I’m not,” she admitted. She tucked her wrist under her bill. “Did you know there are 225,757 Donald Ducks in Duckburg? A surprisingly popular name.”

“Daffodil, I’ve told you,” she said in between breaths, “to stick your beak out of my business.”

“Mom,” June interjected. “Can you do this after Aunt Daisy’s finished?”

Daffodil clicked her tongue in response. “It’s the best time,” she explained, “Dahlia’s down for her nap. Daisy’s distracted. I can filter more in the state census.”

“State census?”

“What?” She glanced above the laptop and smirked. “You’ve checked Waddle, Muzzlebook, and Chirper. Have you visited Growlr?”

Daisy’s cheeks darkened, but she didn’t move from her spot. Whatever grievances she had with her sister, which were many, had to be put aside so she could reach the deadline for her dress. Instead, she exhaled through her nostrils.

“I’ve checked Growlr,” she mumbled. “He isn’t there.”

June’s eyebrows rose in a combination of shock and discomfort. _Ew,_ but more importantly, she noticed the disappointment in her aunt’s face. And her mom, although staring at the back of her head, must’ve heard it.

“Aw Daisy Haze,” Daffodil comforted, setting the laptop on the sofa, “don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

“Thanks, but I have other priorities.” The moment she spoke a whine trailed at its ends, and her head turned in its direction. Temporarily forgetting her task, Daisy strode to the playpen and reached down. “Hello my Bumblebee,” she cooed. “Had a nice nap?”

The barely one year old smiled sleepily. “M’ma,” she garbled, reaching for her cheeks. “Face, M’ma.”

“Of course, baby,” Daisy beamed, pressing her cheek to Dahlia’s. Closing her eyes, she inhaled her scent and the tickle of her feathers squished against hers. “My baby,” she whispered.

Opening her eyes, Daffodil was closer, smiling. “What?”

“Nothing,” she sighed. “I miss those days,” she glanced longingly at June, “you used to love snuggles.”

“And all I want now is to get out of this dress.”

“Oh hush.”

Identical in size, shape and general physical appearance, it was difficult to tell the sisters apart. Daisy had traded her formal casual attire for a baggy t-shirt and denim shorts. Daffodil wore a dark green business suit with a light green undershirt. Her shoes and ribbon band, with its conjoined bow, was a matching pantone.

Despite these physical attributes, identical in appearance, Dahlia flickered at her aunt and tightened her arms around Daisy's neck.

“No go,” she said firmly.

Daisy threw her head back and laughed. “My baby is so smart,” she said. Kissing the crown of her head, she smoothed her soft curls, “But yes, you’re going with Auntie Daffodil today.”

She pouted, “M’ma and Juju.”

Daffodil neared, “Lovebug, don’t worry. We’re going to my office today.”

“Office?”

Her eyes were bright. “Yes,” Daffodil nodded. “You know where we go when we go to Daffi’s office.”

Like a dime, Dahlia reached for her aunt. Laughing, Daffodil opened her arms to receive her.“Yes, yes, my love,” she nuzzled her beak, “we are going to have fun at the daycare, aren’t we?”

She clapped excitedly.

“Are you sure?”

“Scrooge McDuck started the daycare program.”

“Wasn’t it for his niece or nephew?” Daisy curved her hands on her back. “I can’t remember their names for the life of me.”

Shifting Dahlia on her hip, Daffodil shook her head. “No, he started the daycare program for his daughter,” she corrected. “Later, the list included any child, and get this,” she smirked, “I heard there are photos of him and his daughter as a baby sitting in the boardroom, arguing with the board. It’s crazy.”

Daisy clucked her tongue. “I can’t say much about that,” she glanced to the wall where a portrait hung. “Parents love to show off.”

The portrait was taken a month and a half ago. “In Acme Acres,” Daisy smirked, and surprisingly, she was more than pleased with the product. They wore matching white shirts and jean cut jackets; their gazes fled in the same direction, heightening the light covering them. “The photographer knew how to put the glam in glamour shots.”

Daffodil scoffed. “Daisy, it isn’t the 90's.”

“Glamour shots are 80's, Daffi.”

“And the outfits and hair are definitely 90's,” she gestured, but pacing her temper was important. “Okay, fine,” she pinched her brow, “where are Dahlia’s things?”

A minor victory but a victory nonetheless, so Daisy smirked and went in search of the pre-prepared diaper bag.


	2. When Donald Didn't Meet Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can say this story has turned out funnier than I expected, and I am super grateful to the response I received for the first chapter. Here's to hoping you'll continue to enjoy the chapters as we progress along.
> 
> On that note, if/when any content warnings must be included, I will include them, but the rating will not go above T. No steamy, explicit material in this nest, I tell you, but things are going to get a little hazy. That's all.

Hard earned lessons were acquired on the night of Emma Glamour's It List Gala. Louie didn't have the patience to go through the entire list, but at the top was the one he hadn't angled into his concentration. Yet, he didn't have much of a choice in accepting. _Not even a top notch plan could predict every possible variable._ The night had proven so many could exist at once. 

Glamour’s familiarity with schemes. Falcon Graves’ inside job. Mark Beaks' ultimate goal. Each was new, confounding and Louie's couldn't expect, let alone react.

Dewey did, of course; his brother had proven himself more than capable at responding to unknown occurrences, except Daisy Duck.

Known but not _known_ , none could have anticipated her wrath, but then, who could have? Knowing life didn't fall in line like a row of dominoes was different than experiencing the fall in real life; on that night, his perfectly planned scheme toppled like a fallen tower. Its remains were spread across dirt and broken dreams, which meant this plan relied on wild plays and unknown, unpredictable variables. It was imperative that it did.

So Louie told Dewey, who told Huey and Webby, and they told Phooey (Thelma), but she couldn't make it to the meeting due to a school related event in Mouseton. Their excitement dragged the children to their shared bedroom where Louie sat them down to expose the truth; he wore the most serious expression he could muster and spoke.

“Uncle Donald has a crush.”

Louie watched with satisfaction as they choked on surprise, but then, unexpectedly, the cork on their mouths popped off, sending a plethora of questions at him.

“What?”

“Who?”

“How?”

He swatted at their questions, slipping an interjection here and there. It was no use. Resigning himself to their excitement, he sat back with a pout and an eye roll until their initial shock passed through their systems.

“Okay,” Huey inhaled deeply. His chest expanded, and he massaged his temples with his eyes closed. “How do you know this?” His stare was pointed and sharp, carefully taking note of even Louie’s inflection. “Uncle Donald mentioned Daisy Duck but not _this_.”

“Well, duh,” Louie retorted. Uncle Donald focused on the worst parts of the adventures. It didn’t surprise Louie that his uncle included Emma Glamour and getting stuck in an elevator and even Falcon Graves but omitted Daisy's influence. “Why would he tell us he has a crush?”

Huey contemplated the logic stonily. “I guess you’re right,” he pouted, arms crossed. “I should’ve guessed something was off when he mentioned Daisy’s dress.”

“Daisy’s dress?”

“Yeah,” Huey puckered his beak thoughtfully. It wasn’t totally unusual. “He said the design was nice.”

“Well, yeah,” Dewey said. “She made the list.”

“I didn’t hear anything happen.” Webby crossed her arms, tilting her head up. “From the sounds of it, they were arguing. All I could hear were Donald’s squawks in the elevator.” She turned her memories over and under, trying to figure out a puzzle she didn’t know existed.

“Elevator,” Huey repeated. He smacked his palms on his cheeks, an expression of shock and joy. “You know what that means, don’t you?” At their ignorant stares, Huey rolled his eyes and gestured, “They were trapped in an elevator, right? _An elevator._ It’s one of the oldest romantic comedy cliches!" He laughed at his own ignorance, "Can you believe it?” 

Dewey sat in the circle, listening and absorbing this information. He hadn’t thought much about the idea of his uncle having a crush, no matter how gross it sounded. But then, a light bulb lit in his head, and his eyes reflected this epiphany. “Huh, that makes sense,” he said aloud, almost in a thoughtless manner based on his tone.

“What Dewey,” Huey asked.

“Why Uncle Donald kissed her before she left.” Oblivious in tone, carrying the voice of someone discussing the weather instead of a world shattering revelation, another pause followed. Their neurons connected, tapping over this newfound information

"Wait, what"

Suddenly, the three of them stood. Dewey remained crossed legged on the floor, clutching his ankles and blinking absently. “They kissed!”

Dewey jumped, alarmed at the urgency in their voice. “What,” he raised his hands defensively, “I thought he was distracting her, like it was a part of the plan.”

“One,” Louie lifted a finger, “that’s gross, and two, why would I include _that_ in my plan?”

“A distraction!”

“After the party ended?”

“A poorly timed, last minute addition since you are horrible with improvisation.”

“I am not -,"

Dewey stared.

"Touche," Louie conceded.

Dewey nodded, satisfied, and soon, his beak formed a tiny, enlightened ‘O.’ “That’s why Jose and Panchito pulled me away from the window.”

Louie jolted. "Excuse you, where was I," he demanded. He couldn’t have missed a moment like this, not that he wanted to see it. _Ew._ He inhaled deeply, wondering where he could've been and how he could've missed this and thanking the stars he had missed it while Dewey had been unknowingly sitting on this minefield for weeks.

“You were eating crab cakes.”

“Fine, I can see how I missed it.” He turned to Huey and Webby, “But now we have confirmation the feelings are mutual.”

“It’d explain a few things,” Huey said thoughtfully. “He has been a little dreamier than usual, and whenever we run errands, he murmurs _Daisy_.” He stared back at them, sheepishly. “I thought he was talking about the flower, not a person.”

“I saw him on Muzzlebook a few days ago,” Louie admitted. “I think he’s trying to set an account to find her, or he was until he broke his computer.” He didn’t mention the mobile option; in retrospect, maybe he should have dug a little deeper on the subject. “So, that’s where we’re going to start.”

“Start?”

Louie nodded, then smirked. “If we’re going to help Uncle Donald, we need to start with finding Daisy Duck.”

“How,” Huey squinted, wary. “We could just tell Uncle Donald.”

“He went with Uncle Scrooge to the Money Bin today,” Dewey said. “But where are we going to start searching for her?”

“Leave that to me,” Louie smirked. Although their concern was warranted, Louie wasn’t worried; he was certain this path was the best way to help their uncle. “Come on,” he teased, "have a little faith.”

Their groans didn’t bother him in the slightest.

* * *

“Alright, Donald and Della, you’re in charge of bin inventory today,” Scrooge marched through the entrance. His cane rapped loudly, sharply on the floor. “Opal, you’re coming with me to the accountant meeting today.”

“Accounting?” Donald quickened his steps to meet his uncle. “Are you forgetting something,” he asked, glaring irritably at his uncle.

“Forget what?”

Opal cleared her throat. “Daddy, Donald earned his accounting degree a year ago,” her stare hardened. “He could be an asset in the meeting.”

“An asset?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

Scrooge gawked at his daughter, then glanced pensively at Donald. “I suppose, so,” he murmured quietly, more to himself than them. “Well, let’s see what you’ve learned.” He turned to Opal, “And you can help Della in the bin.”

Opal and Della shared knowing glances, both winking with childish glee. “It’s better than punching numbers all day,” she teased, “but you’ll need to send in some paperwork to the Head of Infant and Child Development on the fourth floor.”

Della tilted her head. “What’s Infant and Juvenile Development?” She glared worriedly at Scrooge. “Is he testing on babies?”

The three of them stared at Della. “I...don't know,” Opal said uncertainly. “It’s the Money Bin’s daycare center for employees’ children.”

“Oh,” Della said, lifting her head. “The thing Uncle Scrooge started after the board tried banning him from bringing you as a baby to all the board meetings.

“Ack, they acted as if they’ve never seen a baby before,” Scrooge complained. “Opal was the most well behaved child."

“Yes, because it isn’t like you used me for voting purposes when you were at a stalemate.”

Scrooge scowled. “You were business inclined before you hit one,” he wagged his finger in her face. “I knew it the moment you hatched.”

“You weren’t there when I hatched.”

“No thanks to your mother.”

Opal rolled her eyes and dug through her purse “Look, Donald, you need to turn this in to Mrs. MacBridge. It’s a complete roster of all registered Money Bin employees and their children.”

“And she is?”

“The Head of Infant and Juvenile Development, and one of our highest shareholders. She owns whatever Scrooge and Glomgold haven’t touched and makes it better.”

“Watch it, lass.”

Indifference countered his stern warning. “She makes things better,” she repeated with a slow turn of her head, “and is completely sane on most days. Please, leave this with her. She’ll know what to do.”

Donald took the manila folder and nodded. “Wouldn’t it be safer for her to send it in an email?”

“It is easier, and the other teachers are provided digital copies.” Opal inhaled, chest expanding, “But Mrs. MacBridge prefers old fashioned papers.”

“As she should,” Scrooge huffed. “Opal, Della, off with you, no rummaging,” he rolled his tongue, stalking off to the elevator. “Count the money and no more.” Donald followed, clasping the folder.

“Don’t worry,” Della waved. “We’ll count down to the last penny, even if it kills us.”

“It shouldn't kill us,” Opal eyerolled. “Just make sure she gets that folder, Donald,” she warned. “And Brigitta is a talker, don’t try to get wrapped in.”

Donald nodded as the elevator doors closed but didn’t know what else to say. Now, he was in an elevator, alone, with his uncle. The older man stood straight, scowl infinite on his beak. 

He hadn’t been in a closed, isolated quarters with his uncle for almost twelve years. It wasn’t as uncomfortable as he thought it’d be, but the awkwardness was flagrant. He transferred his attention to the manila folder, opening it to read its contents. He whistled. “I didn’t know you had so many people worked for you.”

Scrooge stared at him wearily.

“I mean in one building,” Donald clarified, chuckling uneasily. “Didn’t think you could fit so many people here.”

Scrooge’s stare softened at the corners. “Yes,” he replied, testily. “The architect, construction company and myself insured the bin could accommodate over two hundred employees along with my money.” 

“I understand,” Donald cleared his throat. “It’s recorded alphabetically.”

“And by department.”

“Accountants,” he read. Scrolling down the list, he read each name under his breath. S. Bombay, C. Bernese, J. Barksdale, T. Calico F. Chartreux, and others were connected to a ‘student’s’ name on the other side of the sheet. D. Duck...Donald squinted. He read to the right where the name Dahlia Duck was typed in a simple, courier script.

“Dahlia,” he whispered.

Scrooge glanced at him. “What are you mumbling about,” he grumbled, not so much annoyed as constantly irritated. “Did you see something?”

He bunched the folder together; suddenly trembling and feeling a spike of temperature in the elevator, he shook his head. “Uh no,” he quacked quickly. “Just really, really surprised you ended up making a daycare.”

“A daycare,” Scrooge replied crossly. “It’s an institution of higher learning for children and provides parents with excellent child care.”

“So a daycare?”

“It’s called a learning facility.”

Donald smirked. “Did Opal tell you that?”

Scrooge blushed and looked away. Donald didn't know whether the fact he didn't know about the finer details of education or the fact it was Opal telling him. “She’s my assistant,” he cleared his throat into his hand, “it’s her job to make sure I’m well informed on current matters.”

“Right,” he drawled.

At that moment the elevator sounded its fourth ding and came to a bouncy end. The doors opened, and they stepped out, staring around the facility where a line of adults, clasping children’s hands awaited.

The line was long, extensive, and Donald’s brow furrowed. He questioned the method his uncle used to accommodate the employees and their children? One father had triplets and another parent had quintuplets. Donald opened his mouth to inquire about the process but didn’t get a chance to speak before Scrooge rapped his cane across the floor. 

He started off ahead, and for every turned head came a whispered gasp, a poor attempt at concealing their amazement and shock. 

“MacBridge,” Scrooge said in a harsh but softer than usual tone, “how does it fair here? Lad, give her the roster.”

Brigitta MacBridge stood behind a grey stone desk. Slim waist with a particularly pointed beak and crinkly blonde hair rolled into a heart shaped hairstyle. Her dress was a sapphire blue dress with red, floral imprints on it. A golden chain, sprinkled with red diamonds, adorned her neck and matched her earrings. Knee length golden brown shoes clicked at her feet.

Besides her colorful decoration and stylish hair, that wasn’t what attracted Donald’s attention the closer they got. In Brigitta MacBridge’s arms was a toddler, the most recent toddler to arrive for their day of school. An American Pekin of mostly usual color, what differentiated the child was her amber, honey brown freckles that matched the natural highlights of her plaited hair.

Although Donald hadn’t gotten a good look at her that night, he knew instantly who she was and what that meant for him in the moment. He skirted to the woman standing in front of the desk, clasping onto her purse. She looked different, certainly, but for Donald, the change made sense. 

Her bangs were fluffy and soft as he remembered them, and he imagined, if he touched them right then, they’d tickle his palm like cotton candy tickled his mouth before chewing. A slight difference caught his eye; her bangs were styled not like molded cotton candy but a cinnamon roll, with a small, sharp piece sticking out in the corner. The rest of her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail where a giant bow clipped the middle.

She was dressed in expected attire; a simple tropical forest shade complimented in navy blue buttons, heels and bow. 

“Alright Ms. Duck,” Mrs. Macbridge smiled. “Little Dahlia will have fun with Ms. Clara Cluck.” She smiled at the toddler, whose bottom beak trembled. “Aw, don’t you want to see Mrs. Cluck?”

Dahlia stuck her hand in her mouth. “M’ma,” she mumbled. “M’ma.”

Daisy waved. “Oh sweetie, I’ll come get you at the end of the day,” she blew a kiss and started walking in their direction.

Ignorance like Donald had never known overwhelmed him. He knew he was supposed to give the folder to Mrs. MacBridge. He knew he was supposed to help his uncle navigate an accountant’s meeting.

The folder, the meeting and even Scrooge were forgotten the moment Daisy Duck appeared in his line of sight. Walking normally, Donald’s senses slowed to a snail’s pace; even her hips swayed in an exaggerated rock in Donald’s vision.

 _Oh no, she’s coming...am I molting...wait_ , _no, oh shit, I’m molting! I thought I had that solved_. His heart was on an 18 wheeler collision course to cardiac arrest. He bunched the folder so tight in his grasp, the task he promised his cousin he’d complete eradicated out of memory. _Play it cool,_ Donald. _Play it cool._

“Good morning, Mr. McDuck,” she smiled, her gaze shifted to Donald. “Good morning.”

Donald gulped.

“How do you do, Uh…I don’t believe I know your name, Miss?”

Donald noticed the slight vexation that throbbed over her brow before cooling into resignation. “I’m Ms. Duck,” she pointed over her shoulder, “and I work in accounting. You should see me in the accountants’ meeting later this morning.”

“Ah yes,” Scrooge hummed approvingly. “Well, carry on, my nephew and I have a lot of work to do.”

“Nephew?”

For the first time in what seemed forever, she turned to him. “Your nephew,” she repeated slowly. “Oh, that’s sweet. I’m doing the sa -,”

“You remember me,” Donald squawked. 

Several, curious stares rounded to them, including Scrooge’s. His frown deepened to a sour grimace at his nephew’s unwarranted response. Yet, despite the stares, Donald had his attention on only one person.

Daisy’s shock passed quietly, and she smiled, if forcibly. “I didn’t before,” a strained chuckle left her mouth, “but I certainly will now. Have a good day.” Without another word, she gathered her purse and escaped to the door; even when inside, she didn't meet his stare, pressing the button and leaving her stare on its panel. The moment the doors closed, it must've been clear; the speechlessness on Donald's face reflected harshly on its surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goal: How many obscure/international and original characters can I include in one story without overwhelming the story? I don't know, but I am going to try.
> 
> Hardest part was writing Donald's realization that 'Daisy' didn't recognize him, and it's only going to get worse from there. I am rooting for the dumb ducks; they deserve something nice in their lives.
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated!


	3. What Parents Don't Know About Rugrats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Louie meets his informant to find Daisy, but he's to have to pay more than he bargained for.
> 
> I am really glad you're enjoying the story so far. I plan to make this a 'weekly' update since I'm more than through half of writing it out on my end.

A dense sun strengthened the city’s heat and humidity to an unseemly temperature, but this wasn’t enough to stop the group of four.

Heat and humidity surrounded them, but both weren’t enough to stop the group of four. Dewey and Webby kept pace ahead. Louie walked an inch behind, mindful of any stray eyes. Huey clutched a phone to his ear; he spoke in succinct, clear terms to another who sounded only slightly annoyed.

“We’re going to the junkyard,” he explained. He shifted the phone as the voice increased in volume. “No, not through the junkyard, around the junkyard. Louie said he knows someone who can help.”

Louie slowed. “Tell Thelma my acquaintance is a totally legit business woman, and she’s gonna have what we need to find Daisy.”

“Thelma says she thinks this is a bad idea.”

Annoyed at his sister’s insistence, Louie eye rolled. “We all know the junkyard is a seedy location, but as long as we make it to our connection, we'll be set.”

“Uh huh,” Huey nodded, “yeah, I get it.” He looked at Louie, “She meant interfering in Uncle Donald’s love life.”

“Oh.” Louie paused, “Of course it’s a bad idea, but it’s also a glorious one. Doesn’t she want to help Uncle Donald.”

“Of course I do,” rocked the phone, and Huey pulled the phone away from his ear. “Okay, fine,” she grunted. “April, May and June, you said they attend Rockerduck University? I’m on it.”

Louie grinned. “Your assistance is appreciated, dear sister.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she groaned. “And I’m pretty sure Dewey already went through.”  
  
“Oh no,” Louie chuckled. “Dewey’s going around with the rest of us,” just to make sure his triplet was doing as instructed, Louie glanced up where Webby stood. _Alone._

“Where’s Dewey?”

“Oh, he went ahead three minutes ago,” Webby tightened her backpack strap, “I was waiting for you to catch up.”

A long pause followed.

Louie stared in shock at the opening where Dewey slipped in through; a perfectly, Dewey sized opening. His cry was heard in the distance, in that maze of abandoned vehicles. In hindsight...he almost finished the thought and shook his head, Not today.

Maybe, he decided hopefully, his brother could pull it off a second time.

“Okay,” he inhaled sharply. “A minor change, through the junkyard.”

“Hold Huey’s hand,” Thelma suggested. “Huey?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you holding his hand?”

“I am.”

Indeed, Louie had instinctively taken Huey’s hand; it was calming in a dependable sort of way, a consistent way. 

“Good work. It shouldn’t take me long. Keep me posted.” She clicked off, just like that, disappearing back into a mouse ridden city. The children crept through the hole. Louie’s hand tightened around Huey’s.

“Who wants to bet Dewey’s already gotten caught,” Louie whispered as they maneuvered through the maze of rusted cars and trash. To be fair, his assessment was based on evidence; he’d kept a total of the times they’d end up in an enemy’s clutches, just to be sacrificed. 

Dewey was currently in the lead with thirty-five captures. They kept this fact in mind as they twisted around, keeping their ears open for a change in sound. Louie guided them behind Huey; the back of the line was safest. Huey wasn’t ready to let go of his hand just yet.

“So,” Webby paused at the end of the first column, “who’s this acquaintance of yours? A Beagle Boy?”

Louie swallowed but saw that the coast was clear. He released Huey and gripped Webby’s shoulder, peaking carefully at the side. “Not exactly,” he mumbled. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.” 

Louie knew the explanation wouldn’t be understandable to them. He managed to acquire the acquaintances a few weeks ago under the family’s radar. In fact, it happened in what he believed was called a stroke of luck, but as they crept around the corner and deeper in, he realized the inevitable was bound to happen.

“Get ‘em.”

Like a whip on a cattle’s hide, the voice crackled in an echo. They searched for the voice, but their vision was obscured. Then, they glanced at their feet and realized the grimy, littered dirt was covered in a net.

“Uh oh,” Webby breathed as the trap folded up, trapping them inside. Louie and Huey yelped; Webby remained quiet, gripping the net. She hadn’t panicked, despite the rush pumping her heart. Gripping the net, she surveyed the area and watched the shadows hover above them.

This was bad. Not very bad but disconcertingly bad. However, Webby’s refusal of fear had dampened Huey and Louie’s initial fear, leaving it only at shock. 

“Hey guys!”

Dewey’s voice rippled, and Webby ceased her cutting, slipping her switchblade back into her bow. The boys ceased their struggling. Turning what their confinement allowed, they tilted their heads up and saw a second shadow standing next to the highest one. It didn’t take them three seconds to identify them.

“Dewey,” they cried union.

Dewey waved and nodded to the second person, a round faced girl. “Are you going to let them down,” he asked quietly.

She smirked, eyes pinching behind her black mast. With her fists placed on her hips, “Burger, Bouncer, let ‘em go.”

They landed on their stomach, groaning; there wasn’t time to think about what to do next. A pair of strong, large arms scooped them up. They wrestled for freedom; every wiggle tightened the hold.

“Hi, Brother Huey,” Bouncer grinned. “Don’t worry. We ain’t here to kidnap ya’.”

“Yeah, it isn’t like you’re holding us against our will,” Louie griped. “And where’s your boss? This wasn’t a part of the deal.”

“Lou Lou, you’ve gone and hurt my feelings,” teased the aforementioned boss ahead. Webby, Huey and Louie resistance stopped in an instant. Louie’s feathers paled to a pasty glue. He swallowed audibly; the lump rolled down his throat.

With her hands on her hips, the small, round girl grinned then whistled. “Bouncer, take ‘em to the house.”

“Kay, Bette.”

“You think we’re going to fit in that trailer,” Huey asked indignantly. Indeed, it was next to impossible for Bouncer to squeeze through the normal sized door.

Bette whirled at home, glare sharp and barked a laugh that grated on the ears. “Y’all funny as heck, Monsieur Canard,” she patted her stomach, “but I said house. You need to get your ears cleaned.”

Huey and Webby exchanged confused glances but didn’t get a chance to converse. “It is so cozy there,” Dewey ran ahead. “You’re gonna love it.”

“Cozy?”

“It’s clean,” Huey murmured, flabbergasted.

Louie said nothing, glaring at the braided haired girl as she slipped ahead, more confident than she had any right to be. 

* * *

“Okay, Opal, what’s next on the list?”

Unsurprisingly, they hadn’t spent the entire time of their early afternoon counting money. Finished with their tasks, they were now able to play around, or, in Della’s words, hangout.

“Can you believe all the junk Uncle Scrooge has,” she held a small wooden box. “Granted, it isn’t exactly junk as it is priceless treasure.”

Opal was crouched nearby. Gold coins fell like waterfalls through her fingers. “Treasure he wasn’t legally or morally entitled to,” she bit back tiredly.

“Hey, that’s not fair.” Della opened the box, “You loved adventures too.”

A noncommittal grunt was Opal’s response, and dragged her stare to Della’s distraction where her scowl furrowed. “Della, that isn’t a toy,” she chided.

“I know that,” she picked up one of the items in the box. Inspecting it, a slow smirk gleamed her beak. “I’m surprised Uncle Scrooge would have something like this.”

“Goldie got it for him.”

“Oh?”

Her eyebrows wiggled mischievously. “And see,” she found the third item, “there’s a little bag in here too.”

At that, Opal inhaled. “Della, that’s Pandemonium herbs, used for ritual purposes.”

“And they’re in the bin?”

If Opal had a traditional nose, her nostrils would have flared. Instead, her beak worked tightly. “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “I just don’t want to think about the things they’ve done in this bin when we’re not here.”

Della shivered. “Fair, but I don’t think they’ve used this,” she examined the bowls and long, curved handles. “Completely unused.”

Mischief rolled on her grin as she brought the bag of herbs to her nostrils. She inhaled deeply and exhaled. Eyelids fluttered. “Wow, this is...like the most delicious smell I’ve inhaled,” she sighed dreamily. She spun at Opal. “Let’s try it.”

“No.”

“Aw, why,” she whined.

“Because Pandemonium drugs are known to cause confusion, delirium, hallucinations and death.”

Della pouted thoughtfully. She’d known her cousin wouldn’t budge on the subject. But she had a trump card she’d hoped she wouldn’t have to use. “It’d make Uncle Scrooge really mad to find us high out of our minds.”

A blank, empty glaze crossed her features. “Give me a pipe,” she said, trudging the short distance. “Is there a lighter in there?”

“Yep,” Della beamed.

The determination set on her eyebrows, so deep Della would’ve said they were pinching, seemed unnecessary for their situation. Uncalled for. “Gods, I need this,” she sprinkled enough just below the rim of the bowl. “Get me the duck out of here.”

Della laughed hoarsely. “Let’s see where we’ll fall in the cosmos.”

It was like they were seventeen again, sneaking out of their bedrooms for a Letters to Cleo concert with their friends.

* * *

_Pink_...Louie gulped. The inside of the house was so pink. But somehow, despite its pastel pink _fleur-de-lis_ on cream wallpaper and magenta carpets and the reddish pink tablecloths, not to mention the rose pink sofa he was sitting on, Louie had to admit the house was appropriately decorated.

Bold, yes. Gaudy, also yes. Yet, its gaudy style gave it taste. It didn’t overwhelm the decor despite being overwhelming. Something Glamour would love, Louie grimaced, teaching for a chocolate chip cookie offered on the coffee table.

Huey fidgeted next to him. “Are you sure this isn’t a trap,” he whispered, “we are in a house of a Beagle boy.”

“Girl,” Bette corrected. She returned to the living room holding a glass pitcher of tea. “She’s a Beagle Girl, former. Aunt Legal doesn’t do that stuff anymore. Turned legit in the late eighties.”

From the photographs and awards interned in a glass cabinet across the room confirmed the truth the children weren’t willing to accept. Huey clenched his glare at the horizontal line of photographs, each framed and polished. A flutter sputtered in his chest. His mouth was agape, and he did a double take at Louie and Webby, gesturing at the photograph.

Her bouffant towered on her skull, a deep, rich auburn shade where even reflected light winked at them with a certain sort of haughtiness. Her smile revealed short, squat white teeth and the traditional khaki shorts, blouse crimson necktie of the Littlest Chickadees. The uniform accented every curve in her large, thick body.

That wasn’t what interested Huey. Biting into his cookie, he couldn’t believe the person whose hand Legal Beagle held in what he would call a friendly embrace. “Clinton Coot,” he whispered. “Found of the Junior Woodchucks.”  
Bette snorted as she poured tea into their cups. “Aunt Legal dabbled in both, to be honest but said she always felt more at home with the LC. Met the old coot at a national convention back in the eighties.”

“In the eighties,” Webby repeated, flabbergasted. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Having poured the last of the tea, Bette set the pitcher in the middle of the table and settled in a large, honey brown wicker chair. The chair was seven times larger than she was, and she seemed to sink in its fluffy pink cushion.

A glare highlighted the contrast of her black mask and earthy brown skin. “Hard to believe a Beagle can be legit,” she clicked impatiently. “Aunt Legal said she met Clinton Coot in the eighties, and so she did. She’s a Beagle you can trust.”

“That was her 1995 campaign slogan,” Dewey chomped one his fourth cookie. He pointed to the wall. “See?”

Their attention to where a framed banner was nailed to the wall. Her award winning smile was the period to A Beagle You Can Trust, Vote Legal 1995. The banner itself was a hot pink, the cursive handwriting looped in white.

“Yes,” Huey said. “We see.”

Louie cleared his throat. “And that’s why we’re here. Legal -,”

“Mrs. Legal.”

“Mrs. Legal,” Louie amended, “has more connections than Emma Glamour has culturally offensive outfits.”

Betted nodded. “It’s true,” said, then frowned. “What do you want, Lou Lou?” Although his name was spoken sweetly, the glare in her eyes conveyed a hardness that contrasted her soft features. “Aunt Legal takes her associates very seriously, so I need to know why you want our help.”

Louie swallowed and debated. He could tell her; there was, theoretically, no harm in telling her the truth. What could she gain in telling the truth? He searched for an angle where she’d come out on top; each one left her poorer than she was starting. If she did confess any information, Mrs. Legal wouldn’t like knowing what her niece was up to in her absence.

“Where is she,” he diverted, crossing his right leg on his left knee, “Mrs. Legal, I mean. I see she's not here.”

Bette rolled her eyes but obliged them. “She and Ma’ went to the beauty salon.”

“And by Ma' you mean Ma Beagle,” Webby asked.

“Does she look like a woman you’d call Mimi,” Bette shrugged. “Or Grandma?”

“Grandma,” Huey, Dewey and Webby hissed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louie hushed them. “So, how long do we have? Is it their Mother-Daughter weekend?”

A slow, teasing smirk drew apart. “Sure, don’t worry, I won’t snitch,” she extended a hand, “we’re in this together, so spill.”

Louie didn’t like feeling as if he was a step behind, especially when there was no reason for him to be. “We need to find someone for our uncle,” he said slowly. At her arched eyebrow, he quickly amended, “Donald. Uncle Donald.”

Her brow pinched tightly, folding in the formation of a flock of birds. “Ma chèrie, what could Donald Duck want?”

“Daisy Duck,” Dewey answered. 

Their heads swiveled to Dewey. He clasped his hands tightly, and he stared at them. All his attention was centered on his hands. “Her name’s Daisy Duck, and we want to find her for our Uncle Donald,” he raised his head. Determination flashed in their pupils. “He deserves this.”

Huey smiled in understanding. “Right,” he added. He curled his palm inward and smacked his fist on his knee. “Our Uncle Donald is a good person and deserves good things in his life. Ms. Daisy means a lot to him, and we want to help.”

Louie glanced at his brothers. Speechless at both of their actions, though one was more expected than the other. But a smile crept on his face, he returned to Bette, stealing some of their determination for his own. 

“We’re going to find Daisy Duck for our Uncle Donald, and no one is more connected than Legal Beagle,” he began a second time. “Are you going to help us or not?”

She entwined her fingers, crossing her left leg over her right knee. Her hair was parted in three, thick braids, each adorned with a gold dreadlock bead; the three braids were tied into a high ponytail. Their ends were similarly capped on the curl ends. “I see,” she said slowly. “An act of love,” she nodded, connecting the puzzle pieces,“Ca c’est bon.”

“What?”

“That’s good,” Webby explained. “But it doesn’t sound like traditional French. Her accent is -,”

“Cajun,” Bette snapped. “I hate when folks talk about me around me instead of just askin’.” She snapped a second time, this time using her fingers. “Burger, Bouncer, I need the books.” The two Beagle Boys stood and disappeared down the hall. When they returned, each held an item. Bouncer placed a thin, stylish laptop on Bette’s lap. Burger handed her a thin, small black book. 

Bette wagged the little black book mischievously, “Now before I go on plucking through y’all business, I need my security deposit.” 

Louie winced as a cold sweat broke onto his neck. Security deposit, the last thing he wanted to give. Aching fingers curled around the object tucked in his hoodie. “I got it,” he smirked. He plucked a ring out and opened his palm. 

“Oh my,” Bette admired. Its sheen was a bright, hazardous gold. A moment later, her brow twisted; disappointment needled. She leaned back in the chair, arms crossed and scowl skeptical. “A little puny, don’t ya’ think,” she griped.

“What?”

“Ya’ holding out on the goods, Lou.”

His cheeks flushed. “I am not,” he defended. “It’s pure gold and the Celtic engravings can definitely get you a fine penny at the pawn shop.”

“It’s a woman’s ring!”

“And you will grow up to be a woman,” Louie retorted. “If that’s what you want to be!”

Her glare tightened. It seemed time slowed, and they counted the seconds while the Beagle Boys flanking her sides waited uncomfortably. “Okay,” she breathed, inhaling deeply. She swiped the ring out of Louie’s palm. “It’ll do for now,” she clicked her tongue. 

Clamped in between her thumb and index finger, the slender, gold ring shimmered. Sunlight reflected in short bursts. “I guess it’s pretty,” she hummed thoughtfully and clucked one, last time. “Burger, Bouncer, keep a watch outside. We don’t want Big Time ruining things.”

Burger grunted his assent.

Bouncer nodded, then lowered to meet her cheek to cheek. “Now, Bette, you play nice with your little friends.”

Jolting as if stung, she sunk in the chair, the illusion of authority dispelled in an instant. “Bouncer, not in front of them,” she whined. 

“Oh, sorry,” he chuckled. “But if you need anything, there’s some junkyard stew in the fridge.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, including the exaggerated _muah._

Horror and disgust drew on her face, though not without the tiniest of smiles as she wiped at the kiss. “Uncle Bouncer,” she squealed, and then, another kiss on her right temple made her moan. “Uncle Burger!” 

Burger giggled. 

“Alright, alright,” she shooed them, despite the pink peeking under her brown fur, “love you too. Just keep Big Time outta here.” Hearing their giggles, she glared at them and reached for her laptop.   
  
“Aw,” Webby cooed. “That’s so sweet.”

“Yes,” she grumbled, “they are.” She slipped the ring into her pocket. “But back to business.”

“So, you’ll -,”

“Yeah, Lou,” she answered. “But it’ll take some time, a lot of protections with this social media persona, so what’s her name again?”

Huey and Louie smirked at each other. Dewey and Webby beamed. It was, surprisingly, coming along nicely and far better than any of them could have expected.

“Daisy Duck.”

* * *

“Alright,” Mrs. Cluck clucked. “We’ve finished our arithmetic children. Have fun, children.”

The heavy bosomed hen smelled of lavender and asphodels; she placed the one year old down in the DT87, high security playpen with her schoolmates. Kenny and Kara Barksdale argued over a bone shaped chew toy. Harper Hopper hugged his favorite stuffed rabbit while sucking his thumb; his glasses never seemed to fit right on his face, a little lopsided.

“I am going to speak to Ms. Clarabelle,” she smiled. “Now, behave yourselves, children.” Mrs. Cluck moved to the other side of the room to sit at her desk where her friend and coworker Clarabelle Cow sipped her afternoon coffee.

Dahlia’s dark, almost black but not quite black blue eyes turned. “Hey guys, I saw something cool,” she announced, though to their teachers’ ears, all they heard was a sharp, gigglish squeal.

Kenny and Kara Barksdale ceased their tug o’ war. Harper pulled out his thumb, revealing a pair of prominent buck teeth. 

“What ya’ see, Dolly,” the twins asked.   
  
Had her mother or her aunt or anyone who knew Dahlia had been present, they might have suspected something. For Dahlia, although she hadn’t reached her second birthday, was something sort of an explorer; this fact had brought upon more migraines than her mother or aunt or uncle could count.

But for a student in McBridge’s Learning Center, Dahlia was known for her exceptional behavior, even when curious. Mrs. Cluck and Ms. Cow thought Daffodil Duck’s warning of, “She likes to explore,” was an exaggeration of an overwhelmed aunt.

Dahlia grinned, an almost manic grin as she started her tale. “I saw a horse with a duck for a head,” she said, waddling to them.

“Wow, an actual horse,” the twins said.

“Made out of rocks!”

They ooh-ed at the same time. Only Harper stayed quiet, clutching his rabbit tighter. 

“And get this,” she dropped to her knees. “I saw that weird chicken again.”

“The one with the light bulb on his shoulder,” Harper cried. “Oh Dolly, no.”

His pleas fell on deaf ears. He knew what that smile and that glimmer in her eye meant, and so did the twins. She reached into the pocket of her overalls to retrieve a plastic screwdriver.

“I saw it this time,” she continued. “Aunt Daffi said he’s on the bottom floor, and there’s one button under the number one.”

“So, you’re saying,” the twins’ tails wagged furiously. “Are we gonna do it this time?”

“Uh-huh,” she grinned confidently. “We’re gonna pluck a chicken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Corner:
> 
> *Plays Rugrats theme*
> 
> I am always torn on "baby" characters since babies can't do much unless they're super intelligent through magical/scientific means or the show is focused entirely on them, as it was for Rugrats. (Great show by the way, I think it's on Hulu, if you have it.) While Dahlia and her crew won't take up too much time, they're going to play a role similar to Gadget and the Rescue Rangers. 
> 
> From what I know, Legal Beagle isn't a complete OC. They were supposed to appear, and Frank imagined them as a southern, kind of like Atticus Finch character. Ma Beagle put them through law school for very specific reasons, but her plans went awry when Legal stuck to the legal code. Legal's litter siblings are Busta (Bette's dad) and Beignet. For these purposes, they were probably raised by their father.
> 
> Ma got around. Not all of her kids have to have been born in Calisota, you know, and not all of them have to have the same dad, even though there's a 99.99999% chance they do in canon. 
> 
> As always, all feedback is appreciated.


	4. Misread Signs & Foxtails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Donald enters a whirlpool of emotions, mostly disappointment. Louie and the gang work overtime to locate the elusive Daisy Duck.

Had he misread the signs?

Donald hunched forward as his back pressed on the elevator railing. He stared at his feet. _Had I?_ Such an innocuous question sent him into a tailspin. His intestines bundled. Anxiety spiked to unseemly levels.

It was possible she’d forgotten, or that was what he initially believed. A quick explanation to steady his panicked heart. In her defense, he added desperately, Donald Duck was common; for a job opportunity long gone he entered his name on Zoogle.

In light grey script, right above the result list read _‘About 85,700,00 results (0.66 seconds.)  
  
_ So chances of her forgetting him were high; and furthermore, he scrambled to think, American Pekins were notorious for their limited physical appearances, though they were built with an innate ability to tell each other apart. 

No two ducks were identical; unless, they were his boys. 

However, identical didn’t mean what others thought it meant.

An extra freckle on Louie’s check, a black spec in Huey’s left sclera, and a small dent right above Dewey’s left temple, almost imperceptible to even the trained eye separated them in appearance and personality.

Two and a half years before they were born, Donald discovered his ability to discern such differences when Thelma hatched. 

Donald shook his head. _Not here_ , _not now_ ….with a deep inhale he returned to that night and the kiss connected to it. Her beak fell on his. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t breathed until her touch rested on his shoulders.

Daisy desired him. Wanted him. Maybe she liked him; he hadn’t read incorrectly

Yet, spectacularly, he had.

His right hand grasped a piece of materialized black licorice; molded in a ball, Brigitta gift was a test of her wife’s skills.

“Sea salt ice cream and black licorice,” she winked. “Velma was excited for these. You’d be surprised how many people like black licorice and sea salt ice cream. We also have strawberry, kiwi and -,”

“Give Donald the black licorice,” Scrooge interjected. “I’ll take the sea salt.” As he unwrapped his candy, plopping the piece in his mouth, he inquired about the children.

“Duckworth will envy our reputation and the work backing it,” Brigitta leaned in her chair, smirking. “No parent has fear for concern when their children are here.”

“I’ll make sure not to tell him that,” Scrooge noted. “As long as the wee bairns are well and good.”

“You didn’t see them,” Donald said.

“Of course they are,” Brigitta stiffened. “We’re fortunate your staff also uses our other facilities. The Money Bin is simply a convenient pit stop.”

“Good,” Scrooge tipped his hat. “I’ll leave you to it. Come on, Donald, we’ve got an accountant meeting to go to.”

And so they did, which was the problem.

They attended the meeting. Donald half-listening, doodling in a notebook an employee provided. Taxes. Deductions. Donald didn’t pay attention. However, he did pay attention to the accountant across the room; she also scribbled away in a tiny notebook. Her attention was set on the department supervisor. Her tongue stuck out in effort; then, her phone vibrated on her desk.

She reached for it, and in the motion of pressing the phone to her ear, their eyes met.

Only briefly.

Only until she pulled away. She cupped her hand around her mouth and whispered. “Sorry Dillon,” she griped. “Some sailor keeps staring at me.”

It hurt more than Donald thought it would. _I’ll get over it_...he slumped in the chair, dejected. _I need time._ _But time_...he grimaced... _I waited too long._

Had he found her sooner, had he asked for her number, _no_ , he swallowed. Her memory would ruin him. He unwrapped the candy and plopped it into his mouth; the sweet, bitter taste bubbled on his tongue.

“You’re grumpier than usual.”

“Eugh.”

“I suppose this is the moment where I ask why?”

Donald frowned. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You sound like Opal.”

“Is she wrong?”

Scrooge scoffed. “Try me.”

It wasn’t the most encouraging thing Scrooge had told him, but then again, Scrooge wasn’t the most encouraging uncle. Donald debated whether he could confide in his uncle and what doing so may entail.

He had no one else to turn to, and of the people he knew, at least Scrooge knew what it meant to be in a complicated relationship. Not that you’re actually in a relationship, the tiny voice in his head reminded him.

Still, what was there left to lose? Nothing. Donald inhaled and opened his mouth. “I met someone at Emma Glamour’s party,” he started. 

“Oh, I see.”

“And she’s,” he didn’t get to finish his sentence. The elevator ride came to an end, and he clamped his mouth shut. He didn’t wait for the doors to part to decide where they were. 

Crashes and screeches clamored beyond the closed doors. When they opened, what Donald and Scrooge found was neither unexpected or mundane. Just with a crack, Donald knew to anticipate the stray wrench propelled in his direction; he scrambled to the right and watched, horrified as the instrument embedded itself in the wall.

“Ah, Gyro, Fenton,” Scrooge sighed. “It seems you’re up and running.”

“Up and running is one way to put it, Mr. McDuck,” the chicken answered dryly, back facing them. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted Donald creeping out of the elevator. A new light danced behind his glasses. “And you’ve brought Donald.”

“Yes, he helped with today’s accounting meeting.” Scrooge gestured, “And what are you doing?”

Gyro contemplated what he was going to say. “We’re testing the bin’s security system,” a sharp glean crossed over his glasses. “Would Donald like to join us?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Scrooge shrugged. “We’ve finished our meeting for the day, and the bin’s security systems need an update.” He smiled at Donald, “And if there’s anyone capable of running tests, it’s you and Gyro.”

“And Fenton!”

“And Fenton,” Scrooge added with a satisfied nod. He spun around to the elevator. “I expect productive results boys.”

He left, pressing the button right as Donald ran towards the elevator; his balled fists slammed on the closed doors. 

“That miserable old coot,” he bellowed, then squawked and finally, sighed. He knew better. No matter what he did now, the results would end up the same. Crestfallen, he marched to where Gyro and Fenton waited.

“Hey are you okay?”

Donald glanced at Fenton. High spirited and kind, the slightly younger man’s compassion stunted him. Or sicked him. Hard to tell when disappointment shrouded what little remained of his good mood.

“No,” Donald answered. “I’m not.”

* * *

“Alright,” Bette sniffed. “Mark down Daisy M. Duck is a no go. We’re on Daisy G. Duck.”

Webby sighed, “You think this one will be her?”

Huey scratched the spot under his hat. “Hard to tell,” he answered. “We’ve gone through 325 Daisy Ducks in the past hour.”

Indeed, Daisy Duck - while not as popular a name as Donald Duck - was still a common name, and as such, produced a high, online search result number.

But prior knowledge helped them swift through the impostors. Louie squeezed in between Bette and Huey. “Daisy G. Duck, what does the G stand for?”

“I dunno, but we’ll find out.” Her lips twisted in a side pout, and she clicked three more times. “Her PondIn profile reads Daisy Gloria Duck, and she works for Glamour Inc.”

 _This has to be her,_ Louie gulped; even their faces were the same. But still, they’d come close far too many times just to be disappointed. “It looks like her,” Louie confirmed. He didn’t complain when Dewey pushed in.

“It’s her,” he gasped, pointing to the screen. 

“How can you be sure,” Webby asked.

“Obviously, my heightened senses can tell -,”

“She has the same hair bow and eye liner,” Louie snapped. “Cross reference it with a Muzzlebook profile.”

Growling at the tone, Bette did as instructed. She typed in the name, and they waited in pensive silence. “I think,” she leaned forward. “How about it?”

Louie and Dewey moved in to confirm. Same bangs. Same bow. Even the way she smiled was identical to Daisy, but the posture was different, softer. The uptightness shown that night was gone completely; she was surrounded by several people, one woman who looked identical to her, though her gracious hips countered that, and a man who was eerily similar.

In the middle, sitting on her lap, was a baby. Her caramel highlighted blond hair was tied in a ponytail with a bow that was too large for her head.

“Who’s the baby,” Louie asked.

“Oh, she’s Daisy’s,” Dewey answered. “I saw Uncle Donald holding her.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us,” Louie groaned. He closed his eyes and breathed. “Whatever, but I’m certain this is her. Bette, can you identify the other people in the photo?”

She chuckled in her throat. “Sure Lou,” she added another tab. “Just gotta go through another avenue.”

“What is that,” Dewey pondered.

“Background check,” she said.

“What?”

“No,” Webby stepped in. “I get it. Background checks are very easy to access. Any information you’ve offered to the government is up for grabs.”

Bette snorted. “She gets it.”

Although the boys questioned the morality of their actions, now wasn’t the time. Confirmation was a few clicks away, and being so close, risking their chance was a fool’s errand.

“We aren’t gonna dig deeply,” Bette reassured. “Approximate location and relatives; if you wanna know more, you gotta pay.”

Huey winced. “This sounds frighteningly like stalking,” he said, squeezing his elbow nervously. “Don’t you think we’re going too far?”

Louie whipped at his brother, then smiled. “Look, we’re going too far for Uncle Donald,” he wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “He’s always gone the distance for us. Let us go the distance for him.”

“Into stalking?”

“Yes.”

Contemplation drew Huey’s face together. He entwined his fingers and sighed. “For Uncle Donald,” he sighed, returning to the screen. “Found anything?”

“A lot,” she mumbled. “Daisy G. Duck.”

“What does the G stand for?”

“Gloria,” Webby pointed. “See, Daffodil and Dillon, the ridiculously pretty people in Daisy’s profile picture.”

“Seems pretty runs in the family,” Bette chuckled, “but yeah, Dillon. That sounds familiar.” She searched for something in her chair, clicking her tongue when she found the small, black Bible notebook under her thigh. “Aha.”

Louie and the others held their breaths. “So, what are you,” he asked tentatively.

“Darren Duck, retired. Douglas Duck, fired for oof," Bette winced, turning the book away from prying eyes. Clearing her throat, she moved on, "Duncan Duck, died at sea. There he is." 

She tapped her finger under the name, "Dillon Duck. He’s an offshore engineer for C.L.U.T.C.H. CORP.”

“Clutch?”

“No, C.L.U.T.C.H.,” Louie corrected. “It’s the third richest corporation in the world, but how does your aunt have connections with them?”

“Aunt Legal has friends in high places,” Bette said. She returned to the good book, “So this Dillon Duck is Daisy’s brother. His current address -,”

“Why does Mrs. Legal have people's names and physical addresses in her book,” Huey inquired.

Bette sent a glare that was neither cold or hot but definitely not as kind as it could've been. “She’s worked a lot of jobs to get where she is today, and some of her former employers require her assistance,” she sniffed. “As she says, knowledge is power.”

“Yeah, but -,” 

Huey didn’t let him finish. “Bette, can you blow up the photo?”

“What?”

“Blow up the photo,” he repeated. “I need to see the dress material.”

Louie nodded. “Why?”

“You said this Daisy is a fashion designer, right?”

“Right.”  
  
Bette did as asked. She enlarged the photo, zooming in as far as she could without distorting the quality. “I don’t see what the big deal is,” she grumbled, “all I see is fancy clothes.”

“That’s the thing,” Huey said, gasping. “Fancy clothes. The quality of the fabric is exquisite, and there’s only one place they could’ve gotten the material.”

“And where’s that?”

“Foxhole Tailors,” Huey said. His eyes drew wide, and he reached for his JWG. “They’re the oldest tailor shop in the city.” He opened to the 457th page and pointed to the crudely drawn image of a black, pie eyed fox. “Here he is, The Fashionable Mr. DiVolpe.”

As explained, there was a crudely drawn image of a black, pie-eyed fox. His beard cupped his face in aged grey. He was dressed in a suave, pinstripe suit.

Dewey stared over the image, skeptical. “Okay, so it’s a tailor shop. What about it?”

“This fox,” Huey drawled, offended, “designed the original JW uniform. I can’t believe it. We’re going to meet him!” He stood suddenly, wings flapping at his sides. 

“Hold on, red cap,” Bette pulled back in her chair. “So we know where to find Foxhole Tailors, but what do we do when we get there?”

Four heads turned.

She stared back at them. “I’m emotionally invested,” she responded, closing her laptop. “Foxhole is on the other side of the city. What are you going to do when you get there?”

Louie stumbled over that. He hadn’t thought over what they’d do when they arrived; it wasn’t like the old man, if they saw him, would tell them where Daisy was or how to find her. Who would give a group of strangers, let alone children, information about a person they may or may not know?

Fist clenched, he set his brow downward. 

“Okay, we’ll just Dewey it.”

Glancing at his brother, the same thought repeated itself. Dewey always managed to maintain a confident illusion when thrust in awkward situations. Doubt was easy to come by; yet, Dewey defied expectations most of the time.

His brother wasn’t unflappable, but good thing he had them.

“Alright,” Louie shrugged after what seemed to be an unnecessarily extended period of time. “We go to the business district.”

At the sight of their smirks, Dewey-ing it was the only option.

* * *

Gold coins rose and fell out of the sky, just like Della wanted it to.

Outstretched on a mound of them, she closed her eyes each time they sprinkled down on her face, and then, after the satisfaction of warm coins popping her skin waned, she did it again. Scooping another handful of gold, she repeated the process; a distant chuckle left her mouth, goofy and disconnected.

The fifth time gold coins fell on her face, she smacked her cheeks playfully and tilted her head backwards. She heard rummaging behind her, or was in front of her, she couldn’t tell now, and giggled. 

“Opal,” she dragged herself around, “Opal, you silly goose, what are you doing?” Her speech hadn’t slurred but had slowed to an unnatural state, and she rolled off her back and onto her stomach, blinking one eye at a time. For each blink a wet, sticky squish tangled her eyelashes.

She could see Opal ahead. Lying her back atop of gold as if she was making a snow angel. “Wee,” she squealed. Using her limbs, she kicked coins in every direction, “oh, this is so much fun, Della. You need to try it.” 

“Really?”

“Yes,” she gasped, then she kicked her feet up in the air. “I haven’t had this much fun since...oh,” she drawled absently. “Oh shit.”

“What?”

Opal was fixated on her hands. She’d raised them above her head and moved them side to side. “Oh wow,” she murmured. “It looks so...ethereal.”

“What,” Della whined.

“My hands.”

Her beak made a tiny, ecstatic ‘o,’ and she giggled. “I see all the colors. All of them, Della,” she whispered, enchanted. “Do it like this.”

Della did. She raised her arms and rolled her body side to side in half motions, and soon, she saw the spectral colors as her hands swayed alongside her. Laughter bubbled up to her throat, and she couldn’t stand the giggle sprouting out every five seconds. It was as she rocked around that she noticed an odd thing to her right. 

Along the wall a piece was missing, an obvious piece that wouldn’t have been discovered had the money remained at its previous glory. None of that mattered, and it wasn’t the time to investigate the reasons. Della stopped rocking and fell flat on her right side; her inebriated brain couldn’t connect the dots as she stared on. 

Nonetheless, she understood something was amiss. “Hey Opal,” Della called to her cousin, “come look at this.” 

And maybe it was the urgency in her voice, or the way Della’s whispers bordered on a fine combed hiss. Opal stopped her golden shower, and she scrawled amongst the coins, swaying at some points due to her weakened equilibrium. She scrambled across Della’s waist, settling her head on her shoulder, and she blinked, curiously. 

“What are we looking at,” she whispered into Della’s ears.

Della pointed. “The baby.”

Opal squinted, peering closely in the direction where Della pointed, and suddenly, she cupped her mouth, gasp slipping in between her fingers. “Oh my gosh,” she said, “Della, you had another baby?”

Della shook her head in response. “I guess,” she mumbled, “but Opal, I’m not ready for another baby.”

“Yeah, you’ve got like five babies!” 

“I know.”

“That’s a lot of babies for this time and age.” She pressed her cheek to Della’s, “And we didn’t even get to do a baby shower. Why didn’t you do a baby shower for the others?”

“Because Uncle Scrooge bought all the stuff,” she began to sob, and she motioned to the lopsided wall tile. “And now,” she whimpered, “now, she’s gone, Opal. She’s gone. I’m never going to see her again.”

Opal gripped her shoulder. “No,” she said firmly, squeezing tightly. “No, Della, get up,” she pushed her cousin in a sitting position. Grabbing both shoulders, she shook her roughly. “Della, Della, you listen to me,” she commanded in a familiarly warm command, “we’re gonna find your baby.”

Della sniffed, wiping her eyes. “We are?”

“Yes, we are.” She turned to the lopsided wall tile, “We’re going to follow her, and bring her home.”

“Yeah,” Della inhaled. “Yeah, we’re gonna find her,” she said more confidently. Shaking her head, she followed her cousin to the wall tile. 

Opal gripped the slightly lopsided tile and pushed it wide enough for Della to squeeze into. “Oh, a secret tunnel,” she cheered. She crawled through the metal tunnel, giggling. 

Opal stayed to reposition the tile in a tighter position, having pushed the gold coins far enough to place it in the nick of time, but that didn’t stop a two cupfuls of coins from sliding in. 

“Oh no,” Opal whined. “Some got in.”

“Opal?”

Della wanted to turn around, but the metal tunnel wasn’t spacious enough. Most importantly, she was positive she’d waste her breakfast if she tried. Coins were scooped up and dropped on top of each other; her ears gathered that much. The clink of metal hitting metal reminded her of a star’s twinkle.

“What are you doing,” she asked, slowing down to keep the distance minimal. “Opal,” she whined.

Then knees and hands pattered at her side, and Opal was there, a little breathless but excited.

“Where did you go?”

“I dropped coins,” she said blithely. It reminded Della of their younger ears. Remnants of sunlight shimmered in her eyes. “So I put them away.”

“Oh,” Della continued on. “Where?”

But the sound told her. Della glanced to her right, seeing Opal come up behind, and saw the way her chest area seemed to sag. The clinks were louder than they were previously, but Opal crawled without shame or annoyance. 

“What,” she asked, feeling Della’s stare. “I’ve got two cups, and there’s enough room to put them in there.”

“But in your bra?” Stuffing your bra with gold coins from your father’s money bin? What a ridiculous idea, even Della couldn’t deny it. “What an igneous idea,” she said, grinning from ear to ear, “what else can you fit in there?”

“Brownies,” she answered without missing a beat, “and cookies. They were squashed, but bras are very good holding areas.” She lifted her head proudly, more impressed with her ingenuity than embarrassed at Della’s questions.

“Wow,” Della admired. She glanced down to her hands. “I really wish I had graduated out of training bras.”  
  
Opal snorted.

Della snickered.

Like children, they crawled through the vents, giggling and sharing secret smiles; their destination was in sight, although they didn’t know where it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Louie and the others bring their uncle and soon to be aunt together? (Yes, yes, they will, or I certainly hope so.)
> 
> All feedback is much appreciated!


	5. Love Advice from Dr. Gearloose (Or not?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daisy debates her life choices.
> 
> Donald gets stronghold into making his own.

“I want to create M’ma.”

Was it the sound of her voice? Or did the name carry enough pull to distract the soft brown feathered woman from her business minded reverie? Daisy liked to believe it was both.

Her mother’s hair was a maple brown styled in a messy, absently rolled bun; the sort of bun reserved for home and nowhere else. Only family and close family friends were permitted to see Marguerite Pato-Duck without her hair styled to perfection.

Her m’ma tucked her knuckles on the side of her face before she reached for Daisy, scooping her up onto her lap. “Mi reinita, you can and will do anything you set your mind to,” she tapped her beak playfully, “as long as you keep a steady head, dogged pursuit of success and a meticulously designed planner.”

When she said it like that, it sounded simple, but Daisy knew she was missing something. "I'm going to need a planner," she crossed her arms. Daisy knew she had the other two things but the third was much harder for a girl of four and a half to get on her own.

Marguerite chuckled. “You’re right,” she mused, “no successful business woman can operate without one.” She spun her swivel chair to her left to reach for a desk drawer; opening it, she revealed a sparkly, fuzzy pink children’s planner.

Daisy gasped; although the sparkly colors appealed most, the importance of the gesture was apparent. She received the planner from her m'ma, tears of excitement bubbled. “M’ma,” she squealed. “Is this real?”

“As real as your daddy’s snoring,” she chuckled, pressing her cheek to Daisy’s. “And like he always says a failure to plan -,”  
  
“Is a plan to fail,” Daisy finished proudly. “I listen to Daddy.”

“Someone has to,” she laughed. “Now baby, this planner is going to set you for life. It’ll help you put everything in perspective. Goals, ambitions, oh Daisy joy, you won’t believe this.”

“I won’t?”

“No, you won’t.”

“Wait,” Daisy’s brow furrowed, “what?”

In an instant her m’ma and her office dissipated. Daisy was standing in front of a row of fabric material with a ribbon resting in her palm. She peered at it curiously, suddenly at a loss as to why she was standing in a leather smelling store.

“You won’t believe this,” the sentence repeated. “Daisy, can you believe this?”

Her frown deepened, then softened when she looked up. June stood next to her, testing a long line of ribbon fuzzy pink ribbon. 

“Believe what,” Daisy asked, unsure. 

“Its texture,” she said, entranced by the ribbon. Glancing at her confused expression, her brow in turn furrowed with concern. “Are you okay,” she reached for her shoulder. 

Daisy almost jumped, almost. “I’m fine,” she shook her head, embarrassed at the emotional display, and in public, no less. Using the back of her wrist, she wiped her eyes and moved down the area. “We need to find the fabric I need for the shawl before your mom and Dahlia come home.”

“Okay, so what are you looking for?”

 _Something that’ll make Dahlia proud of me_...she chewed the inside of her cheek... _something that’ll help her start her future._ How surreal it was to think and know she had laid her more than a year ago and had hatched just barely a year past. Daisy’s stomach clenched at the reality; her baby, her tiny, small little duckling wouldn’t be a duckling for long.  
  
Already speaking simple words, taking wobbly, baby steps, Daisy couldn’t imagine these milestones, and she didn’t have to. Dahlia had checked off each as she moved along in life, despite being so young.

Her family was overjoyed; the girls, Daffodil, Dillon, even their aunts and uncles couldn’t help but fall in love with Dahlia. Entirely unexpected, Daisy hadn’t wavered on her choice to keep her. 

But Dapper had chosen otherwise.

Gritting her teeth, she roamed ahead, biting down on gnawing anger that had the tendency of recurring at the worst possible moments. Dapper Duck...despite her initial heartbreak, the problem wasn’t him not wanting her. I _’m Daisy Gloria Duck, I can and always will find better,_ she vowed hotly, after tearing apart several of the gifts he’d sent her, _but Dahlia, my sweet Dahlia…_

 _No_. She paused and inhaled. Dahlia was fine, perfectly fine, better than fine, and she didn’t need Dapper Duck in her life. Daisy was doing better than fine as well...although her daughter wasn’t with her right now, having gone to her sister’s place of work instead of spending her mother’s off day with her mother.

Her inhale slipped on a water slide, and her shoulders stiffened. “Oh, oh no,” she clutched the fabric to her breasts. “Am I…,” she fell back in a chair and shuddered a sigh.

“Aunt Daisy?”

“Am I bad a mom?” She breathed deeply, head hanging. “I...I want her to be able to survive a cutthroat, capitalist and sexist society by being the best person she can be, and yet,” she turned and saw the other parents, holding their kids’ hands, getting them sized for cute little suits and shoes, “I’m not here with my baby.”

June, too shocked for words, took a seat beside her aunt and pried the fabric out of her hand. “Aunt Daisy,” she patted her shoulder, “you’re doing the best you can.”

“But she isn’t here,” Daisy said, exasperated. “And here I am, worrying about some guy I just met and kissed before we had our official date!”

“At least he was a good kisser, wasn’t he?”

“A great kisser,” Daisy threw her face into her hands, “the best kiss I’ve had in years, and I’m more worried about that than my relationship with my daughter.”

“You can be worried about both, Daisy,” June reassured, suddenly feeling out of her depth. She was used to having her aunt meltdown like this, occasionally in public, but not without her mother near to comfort her. “Look, being a mom doesn’t mean you stop being a person with desires and ambitions. We know how much you adore Dahlia.”

“But what if she doesn’t?”

“Did you ever feel that way with Gramps and Abuelita?”

Daisy snorted. “No,” she said softly, “never, even when he was offshore at sea, or when she spent late nights at the office.” She stared at her shoes. “I never doubted their love for me because I knew everything they did was for me and your mom and later, Dillon.” Her shoulder sagged, “I just don’t know if I can make sure Dahlia feels the same.”

June wrapped an arm around her shoulder, temple pressed on temple. “Aw Daisy, one day you’re gonna drive her as crazy as Abuelita drove you and mom, and Dahlia’s gonna know how much you love her.”

“How reassuring,” Daisy chuckled. “You can’t wait for the torch to pass, can’t you?”

“It’s all downhill once she makes ten,” June teased. “But in between, maybe we can find this Donald Duck, y’know?”

“I’m pretty sure your mom is already doing double time research on the clock,” Daisy teased back, her heart a little lighter than it was ten seconds ago. “Thanks, June.”

“No problem, Aunt -,” she cut her response short and glanced sideways. “Hey, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“I dunno, sounded like...crying?”

* * *

“I mustn't cry. I can't.”

“Louie?”

Four sets of stare stared curiously at the green duckling, who wiped his eyes sweetly behind the wall of tuxedo suits. Crouching below, unseen and mostly unheard, they found their person of interest but had no idea how to approach her.

So they listened to the conversation she shared with what they presumed was her niece, despite the obvious difference in colors. A younger, slimmer black duck offered her aunt a tissue, and rested her head on her shoulder. 

Familial differences was something they were used to. 

“Seriously Lou,” Bette snapped quietly, “pull yourself together. We haven’t hooked yer uncle and this lady yet.”

“But it’s so sad and sweet,” Louie sniffed. “She’s trying so hard.”

“Duh, that’s what it is to be a single parent,” she growled, then she pushed the suit aside a fraction, “we need to get you to her before we lose ‘em.”

“Oh, maybe we can distract them,” Dewey suggested.

“But why would we need a distraction,” Webby asked. “They’re right there, and I’m sure she’d recognize you.”

But Dewey wasn’t listening anymore, or wasn’t listening to the extent he should’ve. His intentions were good but exaggerated in the few moments they shared; the plan was over convoluted, hilariously so. Louie and Bette glared while Huey and Webby exchanged sweet looks. 

“Now, all we’ll need is a whoopee cushion,” he punched into his palm.

“Why?”

“To distract her,” he rolled his eyes. “Come on Louie, keep up.”

Having wiped his tears, Louie inhaled, pressing his fingertips together. “Dewford, I am trying to be a supportive brother, and sure, this dramatic plan would work great for an actual adventure, we don’t need anything flashy.” He strained to smile, to maintain support and let his shoulders sag. “We need to get Daisy to Uncle Donald.”

“Or at least give her his number,” Huey added. He patted Dewey’s shoulder, “But we’ll use your idea for our next big adventure.”

After a moment of sullen silence, Dewey smiled. “Alright,” he said, scooting further to push the lower half of the tuxedo suits, “it’s time for us to take advantage of our element of surprise.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Their heads whipped to the other side where the shield of tuxedos was pushed aside, and standing in front of them, surprise peppered in his frown, was a beardless, black fox. 

Annoyance doubled down at them, and he crossed his arms, shifting the measuring tape around his neck.

No one jumped. No one moved. But their expressions transitioned from shock to mild, expected disappointment.

“Aw, phooey.”

* * *

Donald fell on his stomach. Exhaustion whittled into every limb imaginable, and he panted, clenching his fists as he dragged himself across the floor. Behind him, a carnage of destruction flamed and smoked. In retrospect, he couldn’t imagine what route he’d taken to escape certain death, but he somehow, he did it. Now, all he had to do was make it across the finish line. 

He was so tired, so empty. His head was spinning; maybe a stress induced headache, or a concussion. The latter was likelier than the former, and that didn’t make him feel better. Still determined to live, rather than meet his demise in Gyro’s diabolical laboratory, Donald struggled on his knees and crawled the rest of the way. As he panted, every breath rattling his rib cage, he noticed something. 

Something peculiar, and honestly, in his deteriorated state of mind, his first thought was ‘This is another of Gyro’s tricks.’ A feeling in his bones, or his beak, or pure instinct told him it wasn’t. 

A small rabbit, lop eared and buck toothed, stood standing in the center of the corridor where a circle of blue lasers zig-zagged across the floor. But based on its size and clothes, the rabbit wasn’t merely small. Donald had seen his share of rabbits, and a full grown rabbit was known to be a similar size to an average, adult duck. 

So...if the rabbit wasn’t a hallucination and wasn’t an adult, then, painfully, it meant only one thing. 

“A baby,” Donald whispered. Realization cleared with a loud thud in the back of his head, and he stood, suddenly, panic overwriting pain and exhaustion. “A baby,” he squawked.

Gyro and Fenton’s voices echoed on the intercoms, but Donald didn’t hear them. He couldn’t hear them. As he sprinted, getting closer to the child, he saw how wide its eyes were, and how their long ears had flattened against their skull.   
So small, tiny and helpless. Where the duck are their parents...he thought as white, hot lasers grazed his uniform. 

His grasp on the child was unyielding. Their heartbeats united as one, with theirs being far faster than Donald’s. The distance between the finish line was growing thinner every passing second, and he could taste victory, or at least, survival, on the tip of his tongue.

He tumbled forward, pressing the child to his chest as he rolled. He must’ve tripped on something, possibly an invisible crack on the floor, though the chance of it being one of Gyro’s mechanics was likely. Donald didn’t have time to think about what caused it, except that it was happening in the moment, and it was his responsibility to ensure the child remained unharmed. 

Which they were, mostly. He crossed the threshold, and suddenly, everything behind them melted away. The flames ceased. The lasers and every other monstrous creation retracted back into its walls.

“Donald, hold on, I’m coming,” Fenton shouted. The side door opened, and the former intern raced towards them, fire extinguisher in hand. Donald only had a moment to think before he was sprayed with fire extinguisher liquid, and instinctively, he pulled the child away from him, stretching him away from the onslaught. 

He supposed he must’ve made for a funny sight. Tears shifted to watery laughter, and the baby, child, whatever he held wiggled in his arms. Briefly, he thought he truly was hallucinating and worried that his concussion had brought upon delusions. 

“Donald,” Fenton approached quietly. “Um...why are you holding a toddler?”

Shaking the upper part of the fluffy mountain off his head, Donald glared. “Oh, Fenton,” he replied dryly, “I’m so happy you noticed.”

* * *

“It must be one of MacBridge’s students,” Gyro supplied indifferently. “Lil Bulb, send the kit back to their class.”

Donald fidgeted uncomfortably and flinched when Fenton sprayed disinfectant on his head scratch. “Hey,” he snapped. “The kid can’t be older than two. You can’t expect Lil Bulb to bring the kid back safely.”

Gyro whirled at him, offended. “Lil Bulb is more than capable of proper child care. He could teach those half pints how to properly disarm an alien triforce.”

Donald wasn’t going to sit on this, and he didn’t. Standing abruptly, he nearly knocked the chair over, and Fenton yelped, familiar but not entirely so with the duck’s famous temper. Ignoring his injuries, he jammed his finger under the chicken’s beak and growled.

“The kid stays with me until I get better,” he warned. “No Lil Bulb assistance.”

Instead of being afraid, after his shock had passed, Gyro rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Fine,” he turned away. “Only after your injuries have been attended to.” His stare roamed to the playpen he found in the work closet; the child sat there idly, bottom lip trembling but more or less secured.

Heaving, Donald nodded and fell back into the stool. “Good,” he rasped, glancing at the playpen with a faint smile. “Alright, Fenton, but uh...where’d you get the playpen.” 

Gyro’s back faced them. “My grandfather got it from his old friends when my dad was born. Said their kids outgrew them,” he spared him half a glance. Light reflected harshly on his glasses, “I should’ve thrown the old thing out years ago, but…,” he shook his head in dismissal, “hurry up, Fenton.”

“Sure, Dr. Gearloose.” He went to bandage Donald’s wrist, smiling sympathetically. “He’s come a long way, to be honest. He gets grumpier when Boyd isn’t around, and the fact he’s working on the Armstrong prototype.”

Gyro sneered at him, then inhaled. “Fenton,” he said calmly, “what did we say about revealing top secret projects?”

Fenton blushed, “Sorry, it’s just Donald.”

But Donald wasn’t paying attention to that part of the conversation. “Boyd,” Donald frowned. “Oh right,” he softened, remembering Huey’s story. “Huey’s friend.”

Fenton chuckled. “Yeah, he visits all the time, but he had a JW meeting with his parents to attend.”

Donald clicked his tongue. “Huey had one but…,” he paused, a little surprised. “He didn’t go. I wonder why.” His speculation shortly once he returned to the child rabbit in the play pen. Donald scowled. How dangerous could one place before for a kid? 

He understood why parents dropped their kids off at a free daycare located near work, but Scrooge McDuck’s money bin was the last place he’d want to send his barely walking toddler. 

But that’s what Della did, he remembered. Thelma was barely crawling when Scrooge started bringing her, and what was worse was the fact she had a missing arm, though they were in talks of getting her prosthetic. 

Which happened after Della went missing.

To Donald’s endless frustration, her first visit to the money bin hadn’t been the last; smaller, weaker than the average duckling, Donald fretted over her. It was at Della’s insistence.

“Donald, we weren’t much older,” she defended.

“Della, we were six,” he corrected.

“And she’s one,” Della said, oblivious. “Imagine the goals she’ll reach before she’s three!”

“Just like Della,” Donald sighed, eyes closed. “Never able to see the big picture before it’s too late.”

“Donald?”

He flinched and turned, meeting Fenton’s stare. The former intern smiled sheepishly, stepping back. “I’m finished bandaging you up,” he offered guiltily. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

Gyro scoffed on the other side of the lab. “He’s asking what’s making you more miserable than usual,” he cast an annoyed glare at them, “it looks like someone ran over your puppy.”

Donald’s beak trembled. Keeping his emotions in check came naturally to him; after all, he was a parent. He couldn’t afford to succumb to doubt or grief, but maybe, just maybe, the warm inquiry bubbled every insecurity to the surface.

“I met a girl.”

Fenton’s brow rose. “Oh, that’s...good.”

“It was good,” Donald admitted, then quietly, “at least for a little while.” Loathing the sympathetic look in Fenton’s eyes, he focused on the back of Gyro’s head. “We kissed.”

“You kissed,” Fenton said, in awe. “Gandra and I didn’t even get that far,” he lamented sadly. 

“Yeah, and it was…,” he didn’t know how to describe it. He didn’t think he could. “But when I finally found her, she acted as if she didn’t know me. I guess I didn’t make a good first impression.”

“Aw Donald, maybe she’s not the one for you?”

He shook his head. “I don’t believe,” his fists balled on his thighs. “I can’t believe it, but maybe,” he sagged. “What am I going to do?”

Something soft yet sharp smacked his head.

“Dr. Gearloose,” Fenton exclaimed. “He has a concussion.”

“A concussion,” Gyro’s pitch reached a new octave. Donald glanced warily in the chicken’s direction and met a stern, disgusted glare. “My god,” he hissed, “you’re Donald Duck.”

“I am.”

His left eye twitched. “Then pull yourself together,” for each word punctuated with emphasis, a rolled up sheet of paper connected with Donald’s shielding arms. Gyro was relentless, and gasping, he whirled the opposite way.

“You are Donald Duck,” he spat. “I can’t believe my Grandfather wasted years of my childhood regaling me with tales of you and your technologically impaired sister.”

Disregarding the latter comment, Donald lowered his arms. “So what am I supposed to do,” his shoulders quaked. “She doesn’t want me.”

“Want you?” Gyro scoffed. “Go, confront the problem,” he snatched his glasses off and spun at him with a dark stare, “and win.”

“Win?”

“You’re Donald Duck,” he marched back, shoving the rolled paper into his chest, “and you’re going to show this Daisy who you are.” As an aside, “And you’ll take the kid away, right? Because he really shouldn’t be here. We’re about to test the Armstrong prototype.”

“Uh...right,” Donald nodded, smiling confidently. He stood and went for the kit waiting in the playpen. “Thanks guys,” he waved goodbye as he disappeared out of the exit. 

Fenton stood there, waving in return. “That was really nice of you, Dr. Gearloose,” he said, smiling appreciatively at him. “So, who’s Daisy? Is she on the payroll?”

“No, Daisy is Daffodil Duck’s sister with too many problems while being incredulously short on time,” Gyro answered.

“And how do you know that?”

Gyro stopped in his tracks. “If I said I didn’t test multiple spy bugs throughout several departments would you believe me?”

Fenton’s reply started with a sharp inhale and most likely consisted of some moral obligation Gyro had disregarded, but the moment the intake of breath sounded in his ears, the door to the closet zoomed at him.

He dove in the opposite direction, flinching at the way metal smashed in intensified glass. Stomach rolling, he reached for the remote to set the protective barriers.

“Dr. Gearloose,” he shouted over smoke and flames, both of which arrived with frightening speed, “where are you?”

He couldn’t find him in the smokescreen. What he couldn’t see, he heard. Metal feet clamp to the floor, rocking the tiles under Fenton’s own, and Gyro’s aggravated, not terrified in the least, shouts a short distance away.

“Armstrong, no!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gyro pulling this move was the third scene I envisioned when drafting the idea, and I am semi-proud at how it turned out. He was always supposed to appear in that capacity, and I do not regret it. He filled the need.
> 
> I don't know if Daisy's family will ever get touched on in this show, but this is my personal headcanon for her and her family. Her mom was a hard working woman; Daisy has a lot to live up to.


	6. A Case of Mistaken Identities and Robots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The glass slipper finds Daisy, or rather, a bunch of kids she hardly knows track her down to her favorite fabric store.
> 
> Enjoy!

An unknown hand protruding out of a tuxedo suit rack was not a surprise.

An unknown, gloved hand reaching for Dewey’s arm was not a surprise.

What _did_ surprise the five children was the tonality of the speaker, of which the gloved hand belonged to.

“Whaddya think you’re doing,” a thick accent - Louie guessed at New Birdsey or New Stork - crackled in their ears. “Alright, c’mon, this ain’t a daycare.”

Dewey was of the mind to defy the order with a reactionary jerk; yet, the tone, albeit silly sounding to their ears, held an adult’s authority. It seemed to belong in the store they’d infiltrated. 

Dejected, the five children crawled from underneath the rack; standing guiltily, scuffing their feet and gripping their wrists, they didn’t look up until the man spoke a third time.

“Okay, okay, what are ya’ doing? Where are your parents? C’mon, speak up.”

Mean wasn't what they'd describe the adult male. Overworked. Irritated. Exhausted. All of which pointed to an advantageous position for the children. Huey was the first to lift his head, and he rubbed his left arm, apologetic.

An inky, black fox stood in front of them. He wore a light grey vest atop a white blouse and matching grey pants. Wrapped around his neck was a yellow measuring tape. His feet were stuffed in black, formal shoes, topped with white spats, so polished Huey spotted his reflection on its round end.

“We’re sorry sir,” he stepped forward. “We’re looking for our...our…,”

“Our aunt,” Louie interjected. 

“Aunt,” Huey repeated, horrified.

Louie made a face, but it didn’t last long. “Yes, our Aunt Daisy,” he stressed. He swung his gaze at the fox. “Lady loves to design dresses.”

A fine brushed eyebrow curved in suspicion. “Ya’ mean Daisy,” the smack clunk in his throat. “Always see her with her nieces and baby girl.”

“Yeah, sure,” Louie didn’t miss a beat. “But the family’s big, she’s more like our third cousin twice removed. Still an aunt.”

Lying came easily; over time he had sharpened it to an extent. But this did not stop him from praying to whatever higher power that the fox would accept the lie.

“Huh.” He scratched under his chin and in between his tear-shaped ears. Concern washed over him, and he glanced in both directions. “Where was the last place you saw her?”

Louie’s answer was simple but not in a way the fox would understand. As he stretched his gaze over the fox and his presumed friendliness, he detected a shrewd, demeanor lying underneath. 

He had to play it smart. He had to play it cool.

“Around this corner,” he said casually. “We thought we saw her on the other side,” then realized his error, “the ladies side.”

The fox stretched his neck but couldn’t see. “She’s pilfering all our Vicuna wool,” he grumbled. Shaking his head, “I’ll take ya’ to your aunt. Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”

After a noncommittal shrug, Louie followed, and unable to do anything else, so did the others. Keeping their wits about them, they wondered what they'd find on the other side, what they'd hear. Quick glances at the fox told Louie that he wasn't an idiot, maybe, a little gullible but far from oblivious. It was a relief when her pitch echoed a short distance away, and soon, they winced, more than a little concerned at how the pitch seemed to escalate the closer they got.

But the fox wasn't surprised. He dropped his shoulders and massaged the space between his eyes, pinching them. “Haggling prices,” he dragged his palm across his face. His snout bounced softly. “Okay, okay,” he raised a hand to stop them. He glanced around the corner. 

“Is something wrong,” Huey asked, bending his knees to peek under the fox’s arm, “is Aunt Daisy there?”

“Oh yeah,” the fox confirmed, “and she’s haggling.”

“Haggling?” 

At a visible angle, the children could see the target of their hunt, Daisy Duck. She was dressed in a pale pink dress, the same shade as the coat she wore the night of the gala, complemented with a black ribbon around her waist. A younger, dark feathered duck hung nearby, worried, pensive and doing her best not to get involved.

But to her front was another fox, an older fox. His imperial mustache was a smooth silver, perfectly groomed and curled. He radiated aged finesse and stood with confidence not found in most men his age, an indefinite number, or younger. He was dressed in a slick, pin striped suit with white gloves, gesturing wildly.

“Now Daisy,” a thick, marbled Italian accent rang, “I understand you’re working on endorsements and sponsors, but I cannot give you a discount on the Vicuna wool. It’s the rarest wool in the world and in short supply.”

“Oh, oh,” Daisy laughed without humor. Her neck seemed to zigzag as her grip found its place on her hips. “The sale did not end today. It ends tonight at 8:00 p.m. when the store closes.”

“Okay, okay but the Vicuna,” he rolled his wrists regrettably, “they’re short on wool at this time -,”

“How can vicuna get short on wool, Vito? How?”

He stared at her, incredulous. “They sheer their wool, Daisy,” he said, brow furrowed. “What can they do? They’re camelids. They don’t regrow wool overnight.”

She stepped forward, unconvinced and undeterred. Under the light, her pure, untouched white feathers were a perfect contrast to the aged fox’s black fur. 

“And somehow,” she crossed her arms, expression crooked in a manner a teacher would find acceptable, “you always seem to get a fresh batch by Sunday?”

The old fox didn’t lose his charming smile and shrugged, but Louie noticed the flat-line of the jovial grin, despite the grin remaining as pleasant as ever. 

A sharp bristle rose over the fox’s fur, and without thinking, he stepped forward. “Hey Pops, Daisy how can I help?”

The new arrival distracted them. Heads turned, and sighs were breathed. Vito raised his hands toward Daisy, exclaiming, “Vincenzo, come you handle this. You know I was never good with ducks.”

Daisy frowned, and Vincenzo winced. Chuckling nervously, “Nonno, we’ve discussed this.”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember.” He fixed his square bifocals. “What was it again?”

Vincenzo pinched his brow, speaking in Italian that was too rapid for any of them to pick up. Or that was what Louie thought. He looked to Webby and saw a bejeweled look in her stare and realized that his friend understood more than he did. _Ask questions later_ , he decided.   
  
“I don’t have all day,” Daisy said, tapping her foot in similarly rapid succession, glaring at both foxes, although her ire had folded around the elder. “I can always take my business elsewhere.”

Vito sniffed loudly. “Take your business elsewhere,” he shivered at the thought. “I’ve been your family’s top tailor for -,”

But he didn’t get to finish. Vincenzo sidestepped him, arms raised and expression apologetic. Louie could see between the two, the younger was willing to accommodate. 

"Okay, okay, Daisy Doo, don't crack your heels over this," he warned. "I mean it, don't do it. We may not have been able to press charges last time, but this time I will convince Nonna."

"Gianna adores me," Daisy her smirk curled tighter than Vito's mustache. "But I'd like to see you try."

His muzzle furrowed, and he clenched his fists. A debate warred inside him, but he knew a wall when he saw one. "Look," he spat, exasperated, "Nonna will ring you up for the discount." 

Mr. Di Volpe shivered. "What, Vincenzo, the Vicuna wool is priceless. It didn't advertise -,"  
  
"It did, Nonno," Vincenzo interjected. "Nonna showed me the papers. Tell me ya' took your -,  
  
"I did," the fox sneered, then rolled his eyes. "Yesterday afternoon."  
  
Vincenzo clicked his tongue, "Nonno."

As grandfather and grandson argued, Daisy's smirk waned when she happened to stretch her neck to the side, just an inch and a fraction at the last second. Behind the fox, taller due to his ears, were a group of children. Four ducklings and a puppy she counted. Vincenzo’s stare followed hers, and the roll of his shoulders indicated he may have jumped if not for the multiple stares pinned in their direction.

“Oh right,” he chuckled weakly. “Your nieces and nephews were looking for you.”

“Nieces and nephews?” Daisy was confused. Certainly, her family was large and varied. There were so many mixtures that comprised of their family line. She often met relatives she hadn't known of through work, but these children? No, we’re not related, her brow’s downward slope was an automatic gesture. She wasn’t upset or mad, simply confused as her mental mechanisms worked to untangle the knots. They do look familiar, she studied the middle two children, boys; one dressed in a green hoodie and another dressed in a blue shirt with undershirt.

“I know them,” she said aloud. Her earlier triumph was forgotten in the backdrop of the boys’ faces; they were familiar, more than familiar. A lump formed in her throat, and she crossed her arms, feeling under dressed and open. “I know these kids,” she squinted glaringly, “but where?”

The green one seemed to understand the situation perfectly, and he smiled a smile that was too irradiate to be sincere. Naturally, the smile scratched at the edge in the corner of her subconscious; this was the incessant itch she thought she’d buried under a weight of commissions, sponsors and multiple business connections she used to mold her clientele.

Her lungs expanded; they expanded painfully. Because it was obvious, wasn’t it? At this point, the thump in her heart, girlish with revelation, and her raised blood pressure, though she lacked any means to check, she seemed to understand. The light bulb went off in her head, and she gasped, arms unfolding so her hands could reach for her mouth.

The green one - Louie, memories supplied, grinned sheepishly. “Hey Aunt Daisy,” he shrugged, “Uncle Donald’s been looking everywhere for you.”

Daisy hiccuped, gasped and closed her beak. But now that it was heard, the hiccups would not stop. 

She caught her breath. “You’re Donald’s kids,” and the words were like bells ringing from a church’s tower. Donald... _Donald_...the owner of the glass slipper she’d spent weeks searching for. 

They smiled, the three boys and the girl, but not the puppy, who had rolled her eyes at their theatrics. It didn’t matter to Daisy, not now, not here. Nothing could ruin this moment of discovery. Nothing in the world, for she found a key, a key to him, to that tremendous man who had unwittingly charmed his way into her heart.

Nothing.

Until it did. 

June, predictably, kept a safe distance from her aunt’s tantrums. She preferred having a bird’s view of things, so when the time came for witness statements she could provide an unbiased, objective account, or at least an account to the best of her abilities.

However, in between confrontations, she received a Chirper notification. It wasn’t unusual. Her Chirper account wasn’t nearly as extravagant as her sisters, something May boasted about every chance she got. June’s acceptable follower count built a small fragment of her confidence.

So she swiped right on the notification on her phone, a thoughtless act on its own, but then, for one reason or another, she read. 

Her stomach dropped. Her black feathers paled. She opened her beak but heard no sound, not even a pitiful quack. 

Swallowing was an option. “Daisy,” she sputtered, and because speech was useless to her, she reached for her arm and spun around.

To her credit, whatever Daisy was thinking before was crunched under June’s quiet hysteria. “June,” she said, gripping the younger woman’s arms, “you’re hyperventilating. What’s wrong?”

A phone to the face answered her question, and after a moment of confusion, Daisy read. “Explosion at McDuck Money Bin,” Daisy read aloud. Suddenly, breathing became a chore, and scenarios, countless scenarios, started to swirl in her head.

“Daffodil,” she murmured. “Dahlia,” she swallowed.  
  
All her dreams, hopes and aspirations were incinerated in an instant.

In its wake, anger remained.

* * *

“Oh, thank you,” the receptionist said. “We’ll make sure this little guy is sent back to MacBridge.”

Donald sighed, relieved. He’d forgotten what floor the department was on. He would’ve tried all the buttons had he thought it safe, but knowing this place, he didn’t risk it.

He made a compromise. He remembered the floor of Scrooge's office and found the receptionist at her desk. The kit had fallen asleep in his arms, and he smiled, missing the feeling of a drooling toddler.

It wasn’t hard to get the boys down for their naps. Even Dewey couldn’t defy his internal clock, though sometimes he wandered behind the sofa, thinking he could defy his Uncle Donald.

Phooey’s hair always came in handy, he smiled. His eldest niece’s rose bush hair was thick, long and nearly untamable, and despite her young age, there being only a two and a half age gap, she was more than willing to help when she could. _I miss her_ , he lamented, booping the kit on his nose. 

Giggles shifted his glasses, and he clasped to the receptionist’s chest.

“Bye little bunny,” he waved. “Don’t get into too much trouble.” Not everyone can get out of the trouble they make for themselves.

 _I doubt Scrooge is waiting for me. Maybe Della and Opal need my help?_ With one weight off his shoulders, he walked towards the money compartment of the bin when the elevator opened. 

“Okay, Ms. Duck. Just send these to the Board.”

“I still can’t believe Mr. McDuck prefers paperwork over electronic devices.”

“Honestly, I don’t think he knows how to use a smartphone.”

Time fell apart, piece by piece and second by second. His shoulders stiffened, and he inhaled sharply, reeling his neck over his shoulder. 

It happened quickly, but in a manner where time didn’t exist. His shoulders stiffened, and he inhaled sharply, reeling his neck over his shoulder. He heard the soft clips within his cervical vertebrae, but these sounds inundated him, making him deaf to their presence. 

He gulped, then opened his mouth, every second passing slower than normally. He reached for her, to touch the cuff of her sleeve. An armful of documents were pressed against her chest, clutched in a X crossed arm hold. Talking animatedly to her partner, an emu whose name Donald didn’t think to catch, she turned slowly towards him, and her gaze widened with recognition.

Her hurried steps started to lag. “Hey, I know you,” she smiled. “Oliver, it’s Mr. McDuck’s nephew.”

“Nephew,” the emu’s long neck pulled back. “Oh yes, I’ve heard about you. You’re -,”

“Daisy,” Donald stepped forward. “I need to talk to you.”

“Oh, sure,” then her brow furrowed, as if hearing him for the first time. “Wait, Daisy? I’m sorry, you must -,”

“I know the night we met I must’ve come really, really strong, and I’m sorry about today.” He was rambling. He knew it but couldn’t stop it. “I didn’t know what to say to you or what to think when you blew me off, and maybe you don’t have the same feelings for me.”

Daisy stepped forward, glancing nervously at her company. Her cheeks turned pink, and a strained chuckle left her mouth. “I understand, and I would completely forgive you if you understood.”

Donald wasn’t listening, and thus, he didn’t understand. He closed their short distance, gripping her upper arms gently. He inhaled, chest rising and stared deeply into her eyes. “Daisy, I want you to know who I am,” he leaned closer, and suddenly, he dipped her underneath him. She gasped softly, more out of surprise than fear, and stared up at him with wide, Chinese porcelain tinted eyes. 

Comprehension didn’t always come from words; sometimes, action was able to put everything into perspective. Closing his eyes, their beaks met, and the electricity from that night returned. It jolted his shoulders and scrambled up his spine. He held onto her tightly, keeping her above the hard floor beneath them; she gasped, trembling, then melted. 

Nothing could compare to the kiss on the night they first met. Donald had come to terms with that; the dizziness he fought against the moment their beaks met couldn’t repeat itself. But the potential remained, and he focused, held onto its hope. There were many questions he wanted to ask and many more futures he wanted to dream, but he pulled away to see if any of them stood a chance. 

She studied him, the wrinkles around his eyes and the off shade of his feathers. Her hand reached for him, curving around his cheek, and she smiled, so sweetly. “Oh, it’s you,” she grinned.  
“Yeah, Daisy?”

“Your Daisy’s Donald.”

“Your Donald, if you want it.”

Her eyes widened. "Oh," her smile crinkled like paper, "you sweet, sweet sailor man. I'm not Daisy."

Donald dropped her instantly.

She fell with a grunt and loud thud as her head made impact. Oliver gasped and rushed to her, transfixed by the earlier scene. “Daffodil,” he crouched at her side, grabbing her arm, “oh my gosh, Daffodil are you okay?”

“Daffoldil,” Donald mouthed. His brain worked over time in less than seven seconds. He stepped back, gaze scanning left to right and from the ceiling to his feet. _Daffodil? Daisy...Daffodil...Daisy...oh no, oh no, no, no,_ he gripped the sides of his head and pulled at feathers that hadn’t fallen victim to panicked molting.

“You’re her sister,” he swallowed, tongue wiping the back of his teeth. “Her sister.”

Stumbling to a stand, Daffodil dusted herself off and handed the stack of papers to Oliver. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she reassured him. “Can you give these to Mr. McDuck? I need to talk to Donald.”

Taking her hand into his, the woman formerly believed to be Daisy Duck led Donald to a comfortable corner tucked away from sight. 

* * *

Donald heaved. He heaved, gagged and recoiled all at once, unable to push back the terrifying thoughts swirling in his head. How? How could he have let this happen? How could he be so stupid? Daffodil tried to tell him the truth; she tried to explain to him. But he was desperate, stubborn, and impulsive. Consequences were inconsequential to him the moment he decided to repeat the night’s events.

Holding his hand encouragingly, patting over the knuckles as a mother would to her sobbing child, Daffodil listened.

“I’m so sorry,” Donald dragged out. “I thought you were someone else, and I’m an idiot.” He slapped the side of his head, not wincing at the pain that spread.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Daffodil tightened her hold. “If it helps, tons of people confuse us.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Enough to kiss you?”

After chuckling, she nodded. “Yeah,” she smiled wryly. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to punch a guy who smacked my ass or hugged me because they thought I was Daisy?”

Donald’s beak recoiled in disgust. “That’s just wrong.”

“Tell me about it,” she shook her head. “It’s aggravating when people can’t tell us apart. I have such a generous hip area.”

“No, I mean,” Donald sighed, shoulders spiking up, “it’s wrong to do that. Period.”

“Oh.” Daffodil frowned, but Donald could tell it wasn’t directed at him. “Hmm,” her beak curled like Uncle Scrooge’s upon discovering a gem. Value and worth calculated to the last cent point; but Daffodil’s frown was not so nearly as crude.

“I think,” she said, grip tight around his, “we’re going to have to move.”

“What?”

Her expression did not miss a beat. “From this spot, this exact spot,” she grip moved from hand to wrist, and she sprinted, dragging him along.

It was then Donald felt it. A near rumble, quickly approaching, wobbled their feet; he turned back, confused. The answer came swiftly. 

The wall fell, or more specifically, burst from the inside. The force propelled them backward; his back slammed into the receptionist’s desk. Stone was torn apart. Dust clouds assaulted their senses, but screams were heard, along with mechanical whirls. 

Wiping his eyes and gripping the desk’s upper part, Donald pulled himself up. Daffodil didn’t struggle as much but hobbled nearby, squinting.

“What in the world,” she started, then gasped. “No.”

What, Donald almost asked before he saw the question was redundant. He followed Daffodil’s line of sight; the top of the towering figure semi-shrouded in dust. Standing at eleven feet, the golden monstrosity scanned the vicinity; its metal brow bent forward, angrily.

“Scrooge McDuck,” came its monotonous threat. “Where are you?”

But that was not Donald’s concern, for at the top of the robot’s head was a light-bulb. A brightly lit, over-sized light bulb - to accommodate the energy required for its movement, but that too wasn’t what lurched Donald’s heart into his throat.

It was what was grasping it.

Gyro must have applied a protective covering to lessen heat radiation. It was the only reason the overall clad, twin pigtails and lightly freckled one year old clasped desperately to the bulb, giggling like the toddler she was as the machine’s head searched for the source of the in range sound.

His heart dropped, and he was positive Daffodil’s may have stopped.

Horror tangled their lungs, stitching oxygen to the skin.

"Dahlia," they whimpered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr. DiVolpe and Scrooge have history. I've wanted to write the Daffodil and Donald scene for an extremely long time, and I really hope I nailed it. I really do.
> 
> Of Gyro's inventions in the 87 series, Armstrong's look was reused twice, right, and each time, something horrible happened to Scrooge's money. 
> 
> As always, feedback is appreciated and thank you!


	7. Her Life Schedule

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daisy makes a play that'll change the course of her life. Donald fights against his bad luck to save the day. Louie is closer to his goal than he thinks. 
> 
> This chapter went through the most revisions.

Parenthood wasn't a part of Daisy's plan, but then Dillon was born.

But it didn't start with Dillon, not exactly. It started with their parents. With their mother and father and their traditionally unconventional standards; for in their families, Duck and Pato alike, a thirteen age gap was inconsequential. Waiting for as long as they did, for as stubbornly as they did was what perplexed their parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Marguerite's six brothers didn't understand the appeal of raising another child at her advanced age, and they'd gladly endured the necessary procedure to prevent the same for themselves, just in case an accident happened. Her eleven sister-in-laws, seven who lived in their native Ireland, believed the decision was usual if practical.

One aunt said, "It's just like them. The Odd Couple."

Which wasn't wrong - The Odd Couple was seen as such due to their differing yet balanced personalities. Their courtship was met with raised eyebrows and dismissive scoffs, but despite their oddness, Daisy's parents had planned. And the family accepted these plans readily, having grown weary of trying to match their stubbornness. Born when their parents were in their middle thirties and established in their careers, Daisy and Daffodil Duck's arrival were met with applause and confusion. A marine engineer and an interior designer, lucrative careers to provide the sort of lifestyle they wanted, children included. Such factors could've dismissed any questions Daisy might've entertained in the wake of her future brother's announcement, but her parents were organized, controlled. Speculation squirmed in her head in spite her attempts to put it to rest; a thirteen age gap and late forties was an unusual if not unheard combination. _At least_ , she thought once the news settled, _and it'll work for the babysitting circuit._

"Did you regret your choice," she wanted to ask her parents. "Now that you know what you know, would you do it again?"

Reality's tendency of souring life's sweetness was more than Daisy could take at times. Parenthood wasn't in Daisy's plans, but then her parents died. Father first. Mother next. Suddenly, she and Daffodil were eighteen - adults in the legal sense but so far off from the maturity needed to raise themselves, let alone a five year old and three, unhatched eggs.

Of course, their parents planned. Insurance claims. Wills. Important document after important document crossed over desk and was dissected to the tiniest molecule; the nest egg was modest, not extravagant and not enough for the things they both wanted for their lives at that age. Plans required revision. Agenda required modifications. Holding off university until Dillon was fifteen and the triplets ten was a sacrifice Daffodil made. Working jobs of deplorable conditions while attending college was a sacrifice Daisy made. They sought, and they conquered. 

“Motherhood was always a part of my plan,” Marguerite confessed on the eve of Daffodil's announcement. “You were wanted, so we planned.”

Daffodil was in the middle of preparing the table. Her expression was drawn thin, a wasted imitation of her usual animated self. "What if we don't plan," she asked as she straightened the table clothes, measuring the corner sides - typical Daffodil fashion. Daisy would return to this moment in their lives and spot the clues her sister had unwittingly let them know, but how could either of them guess? No one knew she had a boyfriend - a daffy, infuriating man of a duck. It was baffling to Daisy how she managed to imitate her usual behavior so easily as if she wasn't in the early stages of pregnancy, as if nothing was amiss at all.

"Motherhood is a want," she answered firmly. "A selfish, selfless want," her brow curved knowingly, "if you don't want to be a mother, or you can't be one right now, you have options." She raised her favorite Le Creuset knife and sliced the tomato for the night’s salad; Daisy and Daffodil prepared the main meal on the side.

 _A want..._ Daisy knew she didn't want to be a mother. She didn't want to get pregnant and endure the changes pregnancy brought. Hyperemesis gravidarum was what her OB/GYN named the condition that ailed her; her morning sickness was unlike Daffodil had ever seen. Consistent fainting and dizziness, and it hadn't let up, even as she approached her second trimester. She couldn't forget her swollen ankles, stiff joints and the urge to eat constantly. No food was safe from her. But then...a year ago, the little strip turned blue, and a devious, defiant and selfish want clawed its way out of her frontal lobe, splattering her perfectly planned life schedule. 

Mother would fit. It would fit somehow, and she'd made it work. Her work schedule was a mess. Her boss was...a devil in peacock clothing - extremely offensive, Daisy warned, but Emma Glamour did what she wanted and suffered no consequences. Daisy G. Duck didn't back down from a challenge; it didn't matter how terrifying the challenge was. And no challenge was more frightening than parenthood.

So when the information in the text was processed in Daisy's brain, she pressed her hand to her chest and was surprised to how fast it was beating. An erratic beat drummed under her palm. "Dahlia," she gasped, dizzy. "Dahlia," she repeated, palpitation clenching her thoracic cavity. 

It'd be easy to say thought was lost to her, but that wasn't true. A lot of thoughts swam about in an unidentified pattern of lesions within her front lobe, and surprisingly, each pattern came to the same conclusion. Vincenzo "Vinny" DiVolpe always took a fifteen minute break at noon in his parked Ferrari. The pride and joy of the fox's life, the vehicle was a cool midnight blue, and as he worked the afternoon shift, he regularly parked his car on the curb, right in front of the shop. It might've helped that his grandfather got him a parking permit for that specific location and any other car without it was towed. So was it pure coincidence at 12:15 p.m. that Daisy happened to flicker towards the door as the doorbell rang, spotting Vincenzo slip the keys of his beloved Ferrari into his left breast pocket? Yes, yes, it was. 

DiVolpe...a formidable yet obscure family name. It certainly wasn't common knowledge as McDuck was, but in the world of fashion, not even Emma Glamour could reject their prominence if she wanted to maintain credibility...and sponsors...and everything else she found value in. Was it chance? A sign of God? Gods...did a spectral delivery her brain was incapable of processing until she realized she'd not lose just Daffodil but her very world guide her in the direction of the fox slipping his key in his left breast pocket? 

Daisy didn't know, and she'd never find out. But here was what she did know. A Diver drive would take about thirty minutes, give or take, to reach the crowded street, and there'd probably be another forty minutes to flag the driver down. Vincenzo DiVolpe, younger son of Fletcher DiVolpe, youngest grandson of Vito and Gianna DiVolpe, brother of Giovanni DiVolpe, kept the keys to his prized midnight blue Ferrari in his left breast pocket. And, most importantly, her sister and Dahlia were in danger, while Daisy stood there, haggling sales. It didn't make sense. It would never make sense to Daisy Duck, but she knew what she had to do. And criminal laws wasn't going to stop her.

Daisy closed the short distance separating them. She pushed up against him suddenly and without explanation. "Hey, what ya' doin," the fox snarled in confusion. Hearing common sense was completely lost to Daisy at this point. However, there was a chance she did him and decided hearing him would only delay the inevitable. She didn't want to get violent. Not with Vinny. Vinny was a sometimes friend - not a bad guy, a little boastful but relatively harmless. A painful drumming clang noisily in her head, like wooden spoons on metal pots - like Dahlia on weekend mornings as Daisy scheduled another month of Glamour meetings.

Her right hand dove into his left pocket. Her fingers didn’t brush. She didn’t pause. She didn’t apologize for the intrusion. She reached, grabbed and successfully fishing out the key.

And then she ran.

After a moment of shock, feet and shouts pursued. Foxes were fast. Very fast. But Daisy had the anger of a terrified mother on her side. She pushed out of the door, pressed the car button and heard it unlock to her left. Scrambling inside, she started the car and didn’t think about the back door opening. Knees, palms and voices slapped on leather seats. Whoever was in the back clamored to the right side of the car. Fingers pressed on clean, tinted windows. Daisy didn’t check his rear-view mirror to ensure everyone was inside. She liked to think they were, but she didn't have time to shout at them to buckle up. Waiting wasn't an option. She put her foot on the brakes, shifted to drive and sped off. Tires screeched. The exhaust fumed. Behind her an old fox waved his cane as a slender duck and puppy stood worriedly behind him.

“Don’t worry baby,” Daisy leaned forward, putting the entirety of her weight on the accelerator, “Mama’s coming.”

* * *

“Move,” Donald shouted.

Amongst the wreckage, the warning chased as he ran to the left. A giant, metal foot crashed down on the poor desk; splinters scattered everywhere.

Donald skidded to a halt, horrified. “Daffodil,” he cried, unable to see. Splinters scattered, and the metal leg obscured Donald’s vision. 

It took him only a second to squint, spotting something familiar yet unfamiliar around the leg. A rich, navy blue ribbon coiled around the metal leg like a spring, but it didn’t stop there. Donald could see the ribbon tighten and move to the other, as if someone was wrapping it around and around, like a children’s merry go round.

“What in the world,” he gasped.

“Keep your eyes up,” came a shout. “We can’t lose sight of Dahlia.”

Again, their gazes found their way to the top of the robot’s head. Dahlia was perched to the bulb, plastic screwdriver in hand. Jabbing at it playfully, tongue stuck out in focus, she was completely oblivious to the danger she was in.

He found her gaze and was surprised. Fear was present but also an assessment of the situation. Crude, sharp and deadly, this assessment measured the threat and had taken means in rectifying the obstacle; she moved gracefully, never missing a step or slipping on a random crack.

A metal hand, meaty and monstrous, reached for her. Its intent was clear, but no matter its attempts, the robot could not grasp the swift stepped woman.

What is that ribbon made of, Donald thought, running towards them. Dahlia had, at last, started to shift, as the robot began to lose balance. 

“Eludium,” Daffodil supplied in a grunt. “And hurry, I can’t...hold...oh no.”

Such a simple voice. She’d dug her heels into the ground, holding with all her might to keep the robot upright until Donald closed the distance. And he was fast, admittedly faster than many expected.

He wasn’t fast enough. He saw it now. Just as her bountiful, cinnamon swirl hair fell across her skull in a tsunami, Daffodil was reeled across the room, but she hadn’t released the ribbon. Gritting her teeth, she was propelled above, far higher than any duck had any right to be. But as she flew, Donald saw her release one hand. He watched that one hand reach for her shoe. He thought briefly she grasped them to protect them; Daisy had done so when they went into the air vent, after escaping the elevator. Daffodil’s throw was akin to a boomerang. In fact, Donald thought it was a boomerang, disregarding the comedy at the thought. Yet, as the action unfolded, her action defied any comic notion.

Slashing through the air, the heel struck its target. No, not struck. Sliced. The robot’s cervical vertebrae were sliced. Metal was severed. Wiring was slashed. Its glowy, hot yellow eyes suddenly dulled into a bleak blackness. Muted. Silence. And the head, the head where Dahlia was, or rather, where she was. Daffodil’s intent was clear. The robot fell forward, and they needed the head to fall backward. For Dahlia, the head needed to fall backward; and so, Daffodil made a play. A hard, dangerous and outrageously risky play, but Donald didn’t know Daffodil. Cautious? Impulsive? Hard to say when he’d just met her.

However, there was a thought, another thought besides the one immediately on his mind, he couldn’t help but think, _It must run in the family._

How comical...how _ironic_...he almost grinned, almost broke into laughter as he cupped his hands, never losing sight of the twirling baby.

He understood Daffodil’s intent. He was acutely aware of the gamble she played, having dropped the dice in his hands after knowing him only for a short period of time and relying on her sister’s recollection.

Donald sprinted faster. He sprinted faster than he ever sprinted in his life, which was unique since Donald F. Duck had sprinted faster than he ever did in his life plenty of times before he was fifteen. Dahlia made perfect circles in the air, soon lowering, descending. Donald stretched his arms as far as they could possibly go. Imagination was pushed back; any ideas could ruin his flow. 

“I’ve got you,” he gritted his teeth, more determined than ever. “I’ve got you.”

It was not like time stopped or slowed in any fashion.

It happened in an instant.

Her bottom landed in his cupped hands. Overall fabric filled his hands, and he nearly sobbed, relieved. But he noticed something was not right. For his hand made it only to her back; they weren’t long enough to reach her delicate neck and even more delicate head.

Someone or something was on the other side, lifting the baby’s head with all their strength. Arms stretched, hands also cupped and chest rising repeatedly from effort. Donald shot an inquisitive glance at their shoes and thought, I know those shoes. 

A sharp, classy black, pointed ends, so similar to Daffodil’s but not identical; the neat, black strap wrapped right about her ankle. He knew those shoes.

Donald swallowed, then finally returned to Dahlia.

And saw Daisy’s watery eyes in the same direction.

“Daisy?”

“Hey, you,” a gasp of a sob reached his ears.

* * *

Daisy never imagined she’d crash through the entrance doors of Scrooge McDuck’s Money Bin, but Daisy drove the Ferrari car through the entrance doors of Scrooge McDuck’s Money Bin. There were screams and hands grabbing onto seat-belts and anything nearby for balance. Daisy cared, but she didn't care as much as she could've in between driving and crashing through the doors, then she kept driving until she couldn't get any further. People fled like ants around the car. Employees clutched their paperwork to their chests. Others carried laptops and briefcases. So many well dressed, overworked employees, and Daisy could’ve sympathized with them. Among the screaming people, Daisy caught sight of an emu holding a stack of papers to his chest.

“Oliver,” she fought, tearing the seatbelt out of place. “Oliver, please.”

“Huh - what,” the emu said, blinking rapidly. “The sky’s falling! I gotta go.”

Grasping him wasn't feasible. He was an emu, and the crowd made it impossible to get near him. Daisy was blessed with a voice unlike any other, and she shouted above their panic, “Where’s Daffodil! Where’s Dahlia?”

“Wha -, I saw,” he shouted. “Fifth floor,” he said, skittishly and absently. Then...he disappeared out of the new opening.

 _Fifth floor_... _how can I get there in time_...possibilities were on a freeway in her mind. No options. No way. Her heart felt like it was about to burst; the walls around it congested, tightening around her. 

“You thief.”

A wheezing albeit furious snarl came out of the trunk of the car Daisy had stolen; at that very moment, she realized there were others in the car at the time of the theft. Spinning around, her eyes widened as she counted four children standing there, smiling sheepishly yet unafraid.

“Thief,” none of the children accused. Her vision shifted to where a disgruntled, wheezing and crawling fox fell off the passenger’s side of the car.

Daisy spread her arms, and the children ran behind her, surprised and more than concerned. “Um...Vincenzo?”

“You stole my car!”

“I…,” her brow furrowed, “my daughter’s here, and I need to find her.”

“You stole my car,” he rasped, whipping a gloved finger at her, “and I clung to the side door for twenty two blocks. I counted ‘em!”

“Uh…,” Daisy paused, unable to say anything in defense. And surely, there wasn't anything she could say in defense. She did steal a car. She committed car theft, and considering the out of control situation, she would've done it again. She felt a tug, and glanced down. A third, mini Donald - she didn’t know the boy’s name, and the resemblance was uncanny, offered her his book.

“Ms. Daisy,” he offered, shyly but no less politely, “he may be able to help us.”

Her brow rose. “Really?”

He nodded, proudly. “Yes, the Junior Woodchuck Guidebook…,” Daisy would have smiled under circumstances. He reminded her so much of April at that age. “Reads the DiVolpe family are one of the few families to originate from the Inkwell.”

“Inkwell?”

Vincenzo’s threats of prosecution cracked in half. His brow furrowed properly just as his head tilted to the side; confusion gnawed in his eyes. “Okay, okay,” he said deliberately, as if seeing them for the first time, “we've got copyright laws on that sort of stuff, and you'll be hearing from our lawyers. Nonno told Clinton Coot to keep his beak outta our business.”

Daisy, too preoccupied on the word help, ignored him. “What else, sweetie,” she kneeled down beside him. “How can he help?”

“Inkwell kin possess dimensional powers allowing them to teleport to different locations.”

“Hey!” He stepped forward. “You ain't gotta scream our business out like that, kid. Who you think you are, Scrooge McDuck?”

"He's our uncle."

He paused, blankly. "Oh, Nonno's gonna kill me," he groaned, rubbing his neck.

“You can get me to Dahlia,” she shot at him, eyes wide. “Can you? Will you?”

“You stole my car,” he replied, incredulous. “Why should I help you?”

Daisy gave him a reason. Grabbing him by the vest, she slammed his back on the car window. Probably cracked. Probably didn’t. He tried to free himself, but she pressed her beak to his muzzle, fixing him with the burning red gleam in her eyes.

“You listen here, bub,” she hissed, sweet scented perfume stuffing up his nose, “if anything happens to my precious, lovely Dahlia and my beautiful, gorgeous Daffodil I will ensure every moment of your waking life will be a living hell.”

For every work spoken, she leaned forward, and his head sunk deeper, and deeper, until only his ears poked out where his head should’ve been. He hadn’t even realized his feet were four inches of the ground.

“Whoa,” the red capped boy whispered.

“Yep,” Louie said.

“So, you’ll take me to the fifth floor,” she said. Her grip was infernally tight, so tight she may have ripped the vest off his body - revealing the girdle he wore to prevent his soft pudge from showing, “And you can complain after we’ve saved Dahlia.”

“What about Daffodil?”

“Her too,” Daisy released him, pacified. “Now, come on, do your weird inter-dimensional thing.”

Vincenzo’s head returned, and he huffed, straightening his vest. “Fine,” he snapped, despite most of his heat. “Step back, y’here?” 

He reached over his shoulder, grumbling about car safety and pulled out what Daisy believed was a black spot. _How in the world are we going to save Dahlia with a black spot_ , she nearly raged, but she quieted her question the second he flung it to the floor where it stretched immediately into a perfectly duck/fox sized hole.

“Whoa,” the kids gasped. 

“Just like Foxy,” he gestured proudly. “Learned it at six months. Nonna always said I had -,”

“Who’s Foxy," Louie asked.

He grunted, disappointed. “What are schools teachin' ya kids today, Generation Z needs to -,” then he blinked, aware he counted five heads when there should’ve been six. “Hey, where’s Daisy?”

“Oh, she jumped already,” Dewey said, gazing at the head, “and I’m going next.” Without waiting another second, he jumped in, voice echoing, “Let’s Dewey it!”

The rest of the children followed, hurriedly. As expected of children, there was no waiting time or reluctance; they fell down the hole and landed on the other side.

“For Foxy’s sake,” he bemoaned, jumping after them. “At least I’ve got insurance.”

* * *

As Daisy also jumped in the black hole where time was flexible, she ended up on the right side of the hole and was given permission to see everything as it was. None of that mattered the second Daisy landed. Dahlia was flying, and suddenly, she was falling. Daisy planted her feet on the fifth floor and didn’t see the wreckage to her right, or the fact her sister was dusting herself off nearby. She saw Dahlia. _Dahlia,_ her unplanned goal, the world she never thought she’d ever explore, flying, then falling, and no one was there to catch her.

“Dahlia,” she cried. She stretched her cupped hands as far as they could go; her heels squealed at the pressure she applied. “Dahlia, don’t worry, look at Mommy. Mommy’s here.”

Daisy didn’t see the other person rushing in the same direction. All she could do was calculate the distance and pray she made it in time to prevent the skull crashing crack of soft skeletal bone and tissue meeting the floor below. Closing her eyes was a death sentence, but as the imagery was stamped in her brain, she refused its possibility. Her pulse tied itself to her throat. On account of poorly suited shoes for running, Daisy was positive her feet had reached its capacity; if not for the tightness, blood would've tricked down the sides instead of sloshing around. Irrelevant. Everything else in her life, everything leading up to this moment in her life was irrelevant if she didn't do this _one_ thing.

She didn't understand the texture she touched. Silky soft hair tickled her palms. She didn't understand the sounds she heard. A baby's giggles sang an angelic choir in her ears; the softest, squeakiest and most tear inducing sound nearly wrecked her composure despite the extra breathing she'd done. Understanding was difficult for her, and she didn't know why. Her baby was falling to her certain doom. She did not meet an unfortunate demise due to her mother catching her head, which meant someone else had to have caught her lower half, as it was also propped up, if a little higher than Daisy's own.

“M’ma.”

Daisy didn't know how she managed to curl her hands, arms around the rest of Dahlia's body. Everyone else around them seemed to blur in the background, indistinct figures with indistinct voices, and as their volume increased, she checked the vitals. No broken bones. No bruises. No scratches. No screams of attention. She was dirty, however, but nothing Daisy couldn't wash off. She picked at rubble caught in her hair, picked at it furiously as someone rested a warm hand on her shoulder. _Clean, clean,_ she repeated in her head, maybe she was screaming at that point - she couldn't be sure; the touch on her shoulder was firmer, tougher, and she swung her head in their direction.

“Daisy?”

 _That voice..._ pushing through the cloud of anxiety and terror, she focused on the voice. _I know that voice,_ she mused, _but that makes no sense. It can't be._ Daisy didn't want to waste the luck going for her. The luck saved Dahlia, and the chance she could lose her if it ran out too soon. _No._ Carefully placing her against her breasts, she rocked her silently as she shook her head. _Just no. Not now. Not like this._ But what she heard couldn't be denied, and what she saw refused to be. Alas, there he was, standing in his sailor uniform - with watery eyes and a retracted hand, aware he'd done something he probably shouldn't have. _Why? Why is he crying? Am I crying? I'm totally crying right now._ She didn't have the energy to be embarrassed or ashamed; relief flooded most of her senses.

He patted his shirt hastily, digging into his pockets. He pulled out a handkerchief. "It isn't dirty," he added quickly, as if assuming its dinggy appearance repulsed her. He didn't know she couldn't be repulsed by anything at the moment; it was impossible for her to be so. She stared at the handkerchief and the poor man offering it. Her bottom beak quivered.

"Donald," she gasped.

"Hey, Daisy."

She laughed, pushing more tears out that dropped on the squirming toddler. She reached for the handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. "Thank you," she murmured. "Thank you."

He kicked some pebbles. "I had some help," he said guiltily. 

She didn’t know what that meant, but she didn't like the tone in his voice. He didn't have a reason to be guilty. Not after this. Kissing him was an option, and she very much wanted to. Wanted to do more than kiss him, but first things first...

"Hey," she swallowed. “You mind holding her?” 

Donald opened his arms immediately. "Sure, but why?"

Shuddering, she relinquished Dahlia for the time being. Grayish blue eyes, so similar to her own, glanced back at her, and Daisy smiled, leaning down to press a kiss on her forehead. When she looked up, a part of her faded into Donald’s gaze.Dahlia didn’t cry; she sucked on her thumb and stared at this new person in her life. Her interest found its way to his fake gold, shiny buttons. He was made for this. Daisy didn’t understand how she’d missed it that night. It was so, so transparent, so visible to the dull eye. 

“You got her,” she asked softly.

“Yeah,” he shifted her comfortably in his arms, “but why?”

Daisy beamed at him, clenching the handkerchief. Her eyes crinkled with delight at the sight of her daughter and this other, new and good person that had entered their lives.

“Because I’m going to faint now.”

Someone must've heard for heels snapped towards them. Suddenly weightless, her eyes rolled to the back of her skull. Exclamations crowded her ears but were drowned by the deafening thud of Daffodil's bottom smacking onto the floor below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Foxy is not an OC. He is an actual Merrie Melody character. His creator formerly worked for Disney in the 1920s. Eventually, he moved to Warner Bros., and Foxy was created. If you check out his Wikipedia page, it's obvious he was meant to be a Mickey Mouse...inspired character. He looks almost identical to Mickey, except the fact he's a fox. Knowing Disney and how protective he (the man - not just the company) is about his creations, I'm assuming their conversation was like, "Bro, I get it, but you gotta take him out. I can't have him looking my boy Mickey. Alright?" Foxy and his three shorts were shelved, until...HBO Max dropped. I freaked out when I saw them. 
> 
> He and his girlfriend Roxy appeared in Tiny Toons. I remember that show...they also included Bosko the Ink Kid...I get why they don't use him anymore either. Lol.
> 
> ANOTHER FUN FACT: "Smile Darn Ya Smile," a song known for it's inclusion in Who Framed Roger Rabbit (ToonTown scene) appeared originally in Foxy's short named "Smile, Darn Ya Smile." In other words, I've wanted to use a fox character like this for a long time, and I'm gonna do it.
> 
> ONE LAST FUN FACT: Donald and Daisy catching Dahlia is a reference to a Disney short. It was port of an anthology collection, but it's there. I rewatched the short recently and pointed to it, "YES."
> 
> The end of the story was going to end on a much more romantic, humorous note, but I realized Daisy probably isn't used to this sort of thing yet. So, I made it more emotional and a little sappier than I planned, but I'm satisfied with it. As always, your feedback is appreciated, and we're in the endgame now.


	8. They All Scream for Ice Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, there's a Game of Thrones joke/reference. I do not support or condone the behavior presented in the show. I highly doubt Game of Thrones doesn't exist in DuckTales in some capacity. It's a joke between adult sisters.
> 
> We're getting close to the end. I see about one to two chapters left, one to tie up loose ends and an epilogue, and without further ado...

A nightmare was what the sea was, dark and endless. She’d always known the sea could turn on her at any moment, at any second, storm or tranquil weather - the sea could not be trusted. But blaming the sea, a force of nature rather than willful intent, didn’t occur to Daisy. What could she do as the waves rock her side to side as if she was a ping pong ball and the waves, the paddles? Indeed, she very much was the ping pong ball; helpless to assault and unable to escape.

And they pulled. So relentless in their approach, she was dragged from the ship. Arm outstretched, the ship and its men - each desperately trying to reach her but resigned to the futility of the pursuit - she tried to call out to them. She didn’t know why. She didn’t have anything else to say to them except to sob in frustration and fear. The further she was, the more minuscule the ship and her men became. Dark clouds thickened above; the grey was harsher than the iron steel the boat was composed of. There was no rain, not yet. She supposed rain was going to come; an accumulation of numerous rain droplets contained in multiple clouds. How many were stored inside, condensed droplets waiting for their moment to burst out of their mother clouds’ womb? Humorous or ironic, she’d never know, that this would be the last thing she’d see.

Up and down, rise and fall, the seesaw of survival was tumultuous. Seawater was drowning her lungs, and despite the fact her survival was minimal at best, she didn’t want to stop fighting. Passing out was preferred. At least no one could say she didn’t try; so that when her family was informed, they’d know she fought for them. She fought to come home for them. Her love for her family was immeasurable; if nothing else, she pled as watery tendrils sucked on her ankles, let them know how much I love them.

Surprisingly, a heartbeat wasn’t responsible for stirring her to consciousness. Daisy rolled on her side, scrunching her eyes and opened them in a single movement. Her heart jolted with a heartbeat that reached her ears, but that wasn’t what caught her attention. Disoriented, she tried to lift herself up; skin touching material, she realized she wasn’t on any hard, crumbling surface. Wasn’t wet either. 

In the distance sobs were heard, harsh and ragging. Caught in a thin boundary torn between alertness and shaky blurriness, she reached for the wall and squeezed. This wasn’t a wall. The sound scratched into her ear; the noise was easily recognizable. Her gaze fell on the black cushion that was leather - leather cushion, a leather car cushion. 

Fractured pieces were what appeared to her; each shard reflected a memory almost lost to her unconscious self, in the dark waves that claimed many in the past and present. The more that appeared, the more incensed she became until she swallowed, spinning to the opposite direction, ready to claw her path out of the backseat. 

“If you’re worried about the screams, it’s just Vincenzo,” Daffodil greeted with a smile. On her lap sat a peace offering, dressed in fresh clothes - simple black onesie with gold print reading I get my attitude from...well, pretty much all of the women I’m related to with a rosette designed bow attached under the left shoulder. She gnawed on a teething ring; the kind with plastic fishes inside. Reclined on her aunt’s stomach, she was calm, satisfied and gazed at Daisy with a casual ‘Sup M’ma, or that was what Daisy read.

After reading the shirt and expression, Daisy snorted. “I told you about that one, Daffodil,” she complained, but the snort had given her away. 

Daffodil smirked. Her hair, curlier and bouncier than Daisy’s, swayed. “It’s objectively true,” she defended. “Do you know how many explanations I’ve had to give in the past hour?”

“Oh no,” she shifted into a sitting position, jacket sliding down her shoulders. “Who called first?”

“Aunt Rosa,” she let her head fall back on the seat, “you know she’ll never turn the channel on Roxanne Featherly. And once she knows, everyone knows. Don’t worry, I explained everything to them.”

“And Dillon?”

“I texted him,” she breathed. “I suspect he’ll respond by nightfall.”

Daisy processed the incoming information. It was reassuring to know the family situation was more or less stabilized, but there were other questions in need of answers. Sitting in a car - cool air blowing around them and the sobs in the distance left her perplexed, uneasy. As she sought the imagery through the window, she found a source and pointed, tugging on her sister’s sleeve.

Vincenzo was on the hood of the car, or what remained of the hood of the car, the car she’d stolen and crashed through Scrooge McDuck’s Money Bin entrance. The metal was fan folded, bunched up like crumbled paper, and Vincenzo wept above what remained. He was shameless; dense droplets rolled past his cheeks, getting caught in his equally dense fur. 

“My premiums,” he howled. “My premiums are going to be through the roof. They’re gonna drop me at this rate. Nonna told Nonno we should've gone with a Spoonerville based insurance company.”

He cupped his face into his hands. Another arrived to wrap her arms around his shoulders, guiding him into an embrace he didn’t request but sought eagerly. Daisy watched, transfixed and confused, but knew that wasn’t the sobbing she heard. Vincenzo’s cries were distinct, mournful and a little grating on the ears; these were louder, messier and joyous instead.

She traced the sound, tracked it until she found a group huddled near the empty receptionist desk. Four children stood, grinning and in the center was a woman wearing an aerial uniform. Her arms were latched around a taller, redder and furrier duck, who’s amassed red hair, streaked with a paler whitish-blond. Obviously older, closer to teen years than not, the child wore a yellow t-shirt under black overalls and black sneakers. But that wasn’t the oddness of the situation. Daisy grabbed Daffodil’s sleeve.

“Who’s that woman with Donald’s kids, holding an armless teenager,” she tugged on the sleeve. “Did that kid lose her arms in the attack?”

Hearing her distress, Daffodil stirred out of her comfortable reverie, stretching her neck to see the sight Daisy described.

She sighed. “Oh, them,” she chuckled weakly, “no, Thelma didn’t lose her arms in the attack. She was born without them. Her prosthetic arms are searching for anyone else in the building.”

“And they don’t need a body?”

“From what I understand, no,” Daffodil answered. “Apparently, she earned a full scholarship to Eldritch Academy of Enchantment. I think she made them in Homunculus Studies, or that’s what she told me.”

Daisy nodded stiffly. “And who’s the lady?”

“Oh, that’s their Mom, Della Duck.”

Daisy’s heart sank. “Donald’s wife?”

“No,” Daffodil said. “Donald’s sister. He has kids with his sister.”

“His sister?” Daisy recoiled. Her stomach bubbled, and she gagged visibly. “Like Jaime and Cersei,” she hissed, horrified.

Daffodil stared at her dryly. Before she had a chance to contemplate her response, she smacked her in her fluffy bangs. Daisy’s eyes closed against the sharp smack, and her head bobbed. When she reeled forward, a dark glare blistered in her eyes.

“What do you think,” Daisy shouted, shoulders striking and fists balled for a fight.

“Shut it,” Daffodil hissed. She pointed to Dahlia, “She’s falling asleep.”

With one glance, Daisy saw she spoke the truth. Snuggled in her aunt’s arm, Dahlia was on a fast track to sleep. _It’s going to be hell to put her to bed_ , Daisy mused, but a napping toddler suited her preferences in the moment. She buckled down, displacing her irritation for later.

“Fine,” she gritted her teeth. “Explain.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“That’s not an explanation,” she said through clenched teeth. 

“I caught you,” she mused aloud, confused. “I know you didn’t suffer any brain damage.”

“What are you going on about?”

She massaged her head. “I’m trying to understand how you got the implication of Donald having an illicit incestuous affair with his twin sister.”

Daisy threw her hands up. “It happened in Game of Thrones,” she hissed back.

“Game of Thrones isn’t real life,” she hissed back.

“You just don’t blurt things out like that. ‘He has kids with his sister.’ Who says things like that?”

“I thought I didn’t need to clarify he’s raised his sister’s kids for the past ten years after she went missing.”

Daisy paused, head tilted. “Missing,” she shifted on the seat, spotting a magazine on the floor. _Rooster Rally_...she read, and near was a black box, pushed under the seat. She was able to make out the engraved initials, _S.B._ “How did we get to missing,” she asked.

Daffodil looked ready to scream but muffled her frustration in her throat, inhaling deeply. “Missing as in ‘Whatever Happened to Della Duck 2008’ podcast, subsequently changed to ‘Unresolved World Mysteries’ following McDuck Enterprises’ lawsuit,” she pointed to the window, “as in Scrooge McDuck’s Della Duck missing.”

Daisy did a double take at the woman, now cradling five children in her arms. Her expression was a little distant, a little blurry, and even at this distance, dilated pupils were wider than saucers, wider than they had any right to be in a non-medical situation.

“And she’s high as fuck,” Daisy whispered.

“Yeah, definitely.”

She pointed to the woman formerly embracing Vinny and now playing with his tail as if she was a kitten. “And her too,” Daisy said.

“Yeah, that’s Opal,” Daffodil sucked through her teeth. “Scrooge’s daughter.”

“Okay.” It was coming back to her. Vaguely did she show any interest in the fiasco news outlets drained dry, reporting constantly until the last wave of search parties concluded without any sign of the missing party. Daisy hadn’t paid much attention. Busy with other things, like school and work and children, she’d dismissed the tragedy as something not worthy of her time.

“So...Opal is McDuck’s daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Who is related -,”

“Cousin, she’s the cousin.”

“To Della Duck,” Daisy blinked, connecting the railroad tracks before the crash, “who is the twin sister of Donald.”

“You’re getting there.”

“And...Della and Donald are,” she licked her beak and smacked her mouth, “the niece and nephew of Scrooge McDuck.”

Daffodil pointed a finger gun at her, “Jackpot.”

She fell back onto the seat, eyes wide and thoughts running in multiple directions. It seemed like a millennial before she was able to speak again, and when she did, she didn’t approve of the sound that came out. 

“Daffodil,” she swallowed, “I have a child.”

Daffodil rested her free hand atop hers, smiling, “And he has four. Somehow, some way, he’s managed, and I had a great speech about April’s professor who moved from Spoonerville with his husband and daughter but that just sounds excessive.”

“What about Spoonerville?”

“It’s the insurance capital of the world, no question,” she grinned. “And when aliens attacked? They couldn’t capture Spoonerville.”

“Why?”

“Apparently, one guy accidentally destroyed all their ships. That’s what April’s professor told her, and I fact checked it. He did.”

As impressive as the feat was, Daisy wasn't interested in knowing one exceptionally accidental man's conquests. “And your point?” Because there had to be a point to this, Daisy suspected, and her patience was worn thin.

Daffodil smiled ruefully. “My point is we live in an insane world, and there are no rules to it,” she squeezed her hand gently, “and I’m not saying you need to marry him right this second or screw him in the back of this car, just...you deserve someone nice and who can keep pace. I believe Donald can and will.”

Daisy smirked. “You think?”

“Yeah,” she scoffed, then laughed. “It sounds insane, but I really do.”

Everything seemed off kilter. Just not right but not wrong either. Daisy swallowed and debated the choices she had. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt a connection with a person like that, romantically, and the fact he’d gone to such lengths for Dahlia swayed her to her desires. Yet, reluctance was there.

“Just talk to him,” Daffodil insisted. “We live in Duckburg. It isn’t going to get any less crazier. At least you could have the chance to battle the crazy with. He’s a top notch fighter.”

“And you know that how?”

She shrugged. “We fought a robot together,” she grinned. “And TGIF with Quackfaster, the Archivist.”

Daisy couldn’t help it. An easy, deceptively uncertain laugh catapulted out of her mouth. She ran her fingers through her hair, letting her fears wash over her. “Alright,” she murmured more to herself than Daffodil. “I think I’ll give it a shot.”

Out the window, she saw the green hoodie triplet staring through the cracked windshield. 

* * *

The boardroom was the one room in the bin spared from damage. Some presumed it was a miracle. Donald assumed coincidence. He knew the room where his uncle held his most important meetings had seen worse days, and for that reason, he retreated to its solitude. The chaos of earlier was two floors down, and that was how he liked it. 

He leaned in the back of the chair, legs stretched under the table. Unable to tear his vision off the ceiling, he recalled the times the boardroom - the second most important room in the money bin - wasn’t a board room. Without closing his eyes he could see the rows of desks stacked in accordion file form across the room; perfectly filed vertical roles where men and women were hunched down over multicolored abacuses. He’d sprint down the rows with abandon, no matter how many times he was told not to, always stopping to the middle desk tacked in the middle of the room. That was where the crystal bowl of candy was, waiting for someone to snatch the hardened, fruity sweets inside.

He always pretended he didn’t see Donald reaching. Never once did he complain, even when she came to scold him for running off again.

The door opened, or a slight crack revealed a new person. Donald wasn’t in the mood to move. Exhaustion had finally made its way up his spine. He wanted nothing more than to recline in his hammock, fall asleep as a sea’s breeze tickled his face. A hard sound slid under his beak, grabbing his attention, and he followed it to the table, untarnished mahogany and blinked.

His confusion was palpable at the sight of the cream bowl. Three scoops were planted in it, and a swirl of chocolate sauce decorated the mountains. In the corner of the bowl was a silver spoon, and Donald grasped it, staring at it wondrously. 

“Opal bought a refrigerator for my office,” Scrooge explained. He took a seat in the chair next to Donald. His bowl was plain, but to the right was an unopened bag of graham crackers. Comfortable in the chair, “I thought I raised her better. She claimed it wasn't a frivolous purchase and that I'd find some use for it."

“Seems you did,” Donald said, grabbing the bowl to pull closer to him. 

“Aye, don’t tell her that,” he grinned. “ _I told you so_ seems to be her favorite phrase these days.”

“Wasn’t that always her favorite phrase?”

Uncle and nephew stared at each other, then laughed. Unable to contain his interest, or the small bubbling in his stomach known as hunger, Donald reached for the spoon that was ice cold to the touch. Although the ice cream melted his mouth, flavors exploding on his taste-buds, his belief was in suspension. He couldn’t count the years the last time he’d had sea salt ice cream. He almost tried Mrs. Beakley’s, but circumstances outside his control put an end to that. Sweet, salty and chocolate, this was the treat he needed, though he didn’t know it at the time. 

Scrooge opened the graham cracker bag and crumbled one on top. Crumbs sprinkled down, and he didn’t wait to start. “It’s been a long time,” he said with a mouth half full. 

“It has.”

“The kids told me about Daisy.”

“I’m sure they did.” Someone had to explain what happened. He imagined his uncle was less than pleased to find his Money Bin in disarray after another of Gyro’s creations went off the rails. He ranted, raved in the typical McDuck fashion, and roared at the sight of the fox in the building, which made their heads turn. He had, surprisingly, cooled quicker than anticipated, and now, served Donald his favorite ice cream.

He didn’t know what to make of it, but he didn’t want to complain right now. Scrooge didn’t give him the opportunity. 

“Was that the whole thing with the accountant before,” he asked. 

“That was her sister.”

“Ah,” he licked his beak. “So, a case of mistaken identity.”

“And her baby nearly died.”

“Nearly died?” He faced Donald, spoon raised half way, “Did she die?”

“No.”

He exhaled. “Thank goodness, I can’t imagine what she felt, or what the lawsuit would look like if she was injured.”

Donald rolled his eyes, then resumed his treat. “I kissed her sister,” he elaborated while the ice cream melted in his mouth, “I thought she was her.”

Scrooge snorted, choked and cleared his throat to swallow all at once. High pitched giggles whistled into the air, and Donald glared, annoyance building at his temples.

“Oh what,” Scrooge complained. He didn’t have to see the expression on Donald’s face to feel it. “Come on, it'd make for a funny newspaper strip. I'd read it.”

“You’d think it was funny, but it was horrible. How can I ever tell Daisy?” There lied the crux of the problem, and it was a truth he couldn't escape. Daffodil most likely told her sister the weird sailor man had dramatically dipped her just to plant a passionate kiss on her. He could only imagine what she thought of him now, knowing what she did.

Scrooge listened, putting another spoonful into his mouth. At the rate he was going, he was certain to finish his first. “It seems you’ve found yourself in quite a predicament, lad,” he said at last, slipping the spoon back into the bowl with a soft clink. 

Donald scoffed. An understatement of the year, he was tempted to gripe. “No one but Donald Duck,” he moped instead.

“Or Hortense McDuck.”

He snapped to Scrooge without realizing. “Wait,” his brow rose, "what do you mean?"

“Your mother made the same mistake a long time ago.”

Donald’s brow furrowed. Skepticism was a clear, sharp line - an expected response whenever his parents appeared in discussion. But Scrooge’s expression was light, amused even, such a sharp contrast to the mournful, dreary shade that often accompanied him whenever Hortense appeared in conversation, a rare occurrence in their household.

“Wait,” Donald raised his hands to halt his uncle. “Ma and Pa told us how they met. You crashed a car through Grandma’s corn field when you arrived with Ma and Aunt Matilda after leaving Scotland.”

Scrooge grimaced at the sound of his elder sister. “Yes, that’s true,” he eased softly, “but she didn’t tell you what happened after, did she?”

“She told me they fell in love at first bicker.”

“I don’t doubt they did,” he rolled his eyes, more perplexed at the persistent belief, “but did she tell you what happened after that?”

Donald paused. His mother hadn’t told him, and he, like any child would’ve, assumed that had been the whole story. Their initial fight led to an immediate infatuation to an engagement to marriage and children. He didn’t think, never thought to think there was anything else to know.

“So, what happened?”

Scrooge grinned, picking up his spoon. “Later the same day, she returned to Elvira’s farm to yell at Quackmore some more. I don’t know what she was thinking,” he shrugged, “she said she wanted to prove a point. I think she just wanted to see him again.”

“Okay, so she found him.”

“She found him,” Scrooge nodded, taking in another scoop, “and instead of yelling like she planned, she sloustered him.”

Donald’s ignorance was clear. “Uh, what,” he squinted.

“I cannot,” Scrooge inhaled, shaking his head. “She kissed him, boy. Keep up.”

“Oh, oh, right,” he chuckled. “I knew that.”

“Yes, _sure_ , so she kissed him.”

Scrooge returned the glare with one of annoyance. “Donald, keep up,” he snapped impatiently, “why am I even telling this story?”

“I’m assuming because you’re trying to make me feel - oh,” his eyes widened. His mouth could've dropped to the floor, “No.”

“Yep,” Scrooge nodded.

“She didn’t.”

“She did.”

He leaned over the bowl, a man whose world was suddenly turned upside down. “Uncle Eider,” he hissed. “Ma kissed Uncle Eider?”

“They're twins.”

“Fraternal twins,” Donald smacked his forehead. “How could she -,”

“They were as close to identical twins fraternal twins could be,” Scrooge replied, unable to conceal his amusement. "But anyway, right as she kissed him, Quackmore appeared.”

“Oh no.”

“Yes, it was spectacular.” An amused grin softened the harshness around his eyes, “I suspect Eider escaped during the argument.”

“So, they made up?”

“Of course they did,” Scrooge chuckled, side glancing him for the question, “they talked it out, made up and Hortense was still able to fit her wedding dress four months later.”

"Four months later," Donald repeated. "Wait...is that why she had a bump in their photo?"

Scrooge waved him off, dismissing the question. “The point is they talked to each other," Scrooge said, putting for all his attention on him. "They weighed their options, found a solution and moved on."

Donald’s brow arched. “Like you and Goldie,” he teased.

“Goldie and I communicated when it mattered.”

“Like her not backstabbing you?”

Scrooge hummed, "More like when to start our family."

"Oh please," Donald scoffed, resuming his treat. "We all know Opal was an accident."

“Opal was planned.”

Donald stopped, dropping the spoonful of ice cream into the bowl. Searching his uncle's expression, denying the tenderness revealed was impossible. "No," he said slowly, carefully. He was uncertain where this conversation was going to lead, "You always said she was, you know, an accident." A pleasant accident was what Scrooge described in the past. Goldie preferred a cruder description.

Surrounding Scrooge's tenderness was a cloud, a raging storm swirled in his eyes. "An accident," he said, quietly. He stared ahead, unseeing and nodded, tongue clicking loudly, "Yes, we agreed on the story. We didn't want her to feel differently about us, but the truth is very simple, Donald."

"What?"

"She's our miracle."

“A miracle?”

"A miracle we put all our grit to make real," the depth of his tone startled Donald, as did the stare he locked his nephew with. "And don't you dare tell her," he warned, slipping another spoonful into his mouth. He returned to the melting lumps, tearing through them as Donald contemplated digested this unknown family secret. But soon, thoughts of his uncle's past passed. He found himself back where he started.

It couldn’t be that easy. Not for them. Not for him. He didn't remember his parents in distinct patterns, just flashes here and there. His uncle didn’t keep much of their belongings in the mansion, but had his parents survived, Donald preferred to believe the possibilities of their advice were endless.

“Hortense would wack you with a broom.”

“What?”

“And then, she’d grab you by the collar and drag you to Daisy.”

“Do you believe it?”

“She did it to me every time Goldie and I argued,” he dropped the spoon in the empty bowl, “and in fairness, half of our arguments started with me.”

It seemed so innocuous. _Communication._ Going downstairs wasn't difficult, and getting in contact with Daisy was even easier. But that was the problem - too easy, too simple, none of that seemed to fit Donald's life. He could trust the sensible advice completely and follow his uncle's instructions perfectly; yet, the chance of failure was persistent, high enough for Donald to doubt. After all, a robot attack was the immediate reaction to Donald and Daffodil’s discussion. Imagining the chain reaction resulted in extreme images; explosions and disaster and each was worse than the last. 

“She has a baby,” he stared guiltily at his ice cream. “She’s a mom.”

“And you’re a dad,” Scrooge reminded him. “You have four kids, and if you’ve forgotten, Thelma was raised in my home for two and a half years. She did just fine.”

“But Daisy -,”

“Let her decide,” Scrooge leaned back in the chair, “she’s a smart woman, isn’t she?”

His mouth opened to respond when a rustle skirted near the closed door. Their heads turned, seeing a head peak out at them. There wasn’t a question as to who the person was; they knew instantly. Donald wheeled the chair back, concern pinched around his eyes.

“Kids?”

* * *

“We need to tell Uncle Donald,” Thelma decided several moments later. Leftie and Rightie returned following a thorough search of the building, and she glared at her siblings, sternness obliging them to scuff their feet awkwardly. 

Louie hadn’t expected that. Their former babysitter had returned in an inconspicuous manner, going unnoticed until pulling the card was required. It’d been more than a year since they’d seen that look. She pointed to the door leading to the stairwell.

“She’s right,” Huey sighed. “We should tell Uncle Donald what happened. Maybe it can help.”

“What if we’ve made things worse,” Dewey mused. For once, the concern was a reasonable one. The Money Bin was half destroyed. A fox wept as their Aunt Opal caressed his tail, eyes unusually dilated, and their mom had fallen out of the chair she was spinning in, lying unconscious on the floor. Fearing her safety, Thelma and Huey rolled her on her stomach. 

“It could get worse,” Webby said, thoughtfully, “but it can also get better.”

“And besides, we’ve faced worse before,” Thelma pointed out. “Let’s just tell Uncle Donald before he finds out on his own.”

They walked the stairs, as the elevator was currently out of commission. Avoiding large chunks of fallen wall and its rubble was easy. Stopping short of the closed door, partially - the crack was seen, the children shared uneasy glances. Even Thelma seemed to hesitate at the sound of their uncles’ voices on the other side. But she pushed the door open anyways, and being closest to the door, Louie stumbled in.

Uncle Donald’s gaze found them first, and he was, predictably, to reach them. 

“What happened,” he asked urgently. “What’s wrong?”

“No, no,” Huey said immediately, absorbing his rising anxiety. “Everything’s fine. We just came to check on you.”

“On me?”

“Yeah,” Dewey rubbed his arm, “and to apologize?”

“Apologize to me?” He tilted his head, “Why?”

Louie inhaled, hands thrust in his hoodie, “Well, we kinda sensed you were looking for Daisy, and we wanted to help.”

“Help?”

“We wanted to find her for you,” Louie continued on, cheeks pink, “so we did some digging to find where she worked.”

“And her social media account, physical address and those of her closest living relatives,” Thelma rambled. “We also found her nieces’ universities. April attends Calisota State University. June is at Rockerduck University. And May went to trade school in Mouseton.”

“A welder?” 

“Yes, a welder,” Thelma confirmed. “She’s good at her job.”

Webby nodded, “And we tracked Daisy to her favorite fabric store. That’s where she found out about the explosion.”

“And,” Dewey grinned, “she makes a surprisingly efficient car thief.”

Surreal was one way to describe the scene; each and every event of the day was spilled out for their uncles to hear, except the Beagle transaction. They didn't need to know about that. Louie watched their uncle process this newfound information. He stared at each of them, expression unreadable though Louie senses the creepiness of what they did was starting to set in.

He pressed his hand to his chest. “You did all that for me,” his beak trembled. A throb rolled down his throat. 

“Yeah,” they said, shoving Louie to the front, “but it was all Louie’s idea.”

Louie snapped to Dewey, who shrugged shamelessly, grinning ear to ear.

“Louie?”

Unable to say anything, he hissed, “Yeah, it was me, but I really -,”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Donald had swooped in with an embrace so tight, fierce and peppered with kisses as if he was still a three year old duckling. 

“Uncle Donald,” he groaned, smiling despite himself, “come on.”

“Nope,” he grinned. He extended his arms for the others to fold in.

No one resisted. His outstretched arms curved as far as they could go, and he kissed each of their foreheads, cheeks to when able. It was wet and embarrassing but oddly comforting. No shouts. No reprimands. Just overwhelming gratitude. All the while, Scrooge consumed his second bowl of seat salt ice cream. Soft smacks reached Donald's ears, and he glanced over his shoulder, frowning.

“What,” the old man complained. "You'd think I'd allow my generosity to melt?"

Louie saw his Uncle Donald scowl at Scrooge, but the moment was brief. He returned to them, engulfed in their affection, and there was nothing else in this world to distract him. Louie had to admit he liked it; seeing his uncle smile, stress free and content, was more than he could ask for. 

“I just wish we managed to get her to you,” he lamented.

“Aw, Louie,” Uncle Donald sighed, pulling back to look at him. His hands curved around his cheeks, “I’m happy you tried, thank you.”

Gratitude softened disappointment's edge. Yet, the acute twinge persisted. Louie accepted the parts of his plan he couldn’t control. He’d come to terms with it in time, but there was something bitter about this. No, it was bitter. He closed his eyes, balled his fists and glared at his uncle, though they knew his frustration wasn’t aimed at him.

“It isn’t fair,” he grumbled. “We worked hard to get her here, and she’s still here.”

“Sweet pea, it’s okay.”

“No, Uncle Donald, it isn’t,” he huffed. Arms crossed, he looked away, unable to control the sudden rise of his emotions, “All we need is to get her up here to talk to you.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Seven pairs of eyes widened and whirled over their shoulders towards the door. She stood there, dressed in pink with slightly flushed cheeks. Closing the door, she chuckled nervously, clasping her hands in front of her stomach.

“Um...hi,” she waved. “I came here to talk to Donald, but I can see you’re busy.”

“No, we’re not,” Thelma blurted. “We aren’t busy at all. Besides, we need to check on mom. We don’t want her to end up like Jimi Hendrix.”

“Who?”

Uncle Donald shook his head. “Thelma, don’t you say it.”

She rolled her eyes, but obeyed. “Let’s go,” the kids followed, stopping only when they noticed Scrooge was still at the table. Five pointed stares latched onto his red coat until he had the mind to return their annoyance with confusion.

“It’s my boardroom,” he complained.

Louie frowned. “You do know Aunt Opal and Vincenzo DiVolpe are talking to each other.”

“Actually, they were arguing when we left,” Webby said. “I think it was about insurance premiums and deductibles.”

Scrooge blinked at them. His shoulders lifted in a strike sharper than lightning, and he stood suddenly, grabbing the bowl along with his cane.

“Wait,” Uncle Donald reaches for him, “where are you going?”

Uncle Scrooge ignored him. “No decadent DiVolpe is going to argue insurance claims with my Opal,” he hissed loud enough for them to hear. He stormed out of the office without a second thought or alliterative phrase.

The children exchanged bewildered glances, but saw no reason to complain. Shrugging indifferently at one uncle’s temper, they gave silent thumbs up for the other, who now stood with a tense expression on his face. Always mindful of their manners, each said hello and goodbye to the woman standing in the center of the chaos that had unraveled earlier.

“It was nice meeting you,” Webby beamed. “I hope you get your Vicuna wool.”

Daisy returned her enthusiasm, of a little shaky. “Thanks, but Vito is probably a little sore at me.”

“Vicuna shepherds can be very generous when approached directly,” Webby added thoughtfully. “Uncle Scrooge told us a little bit about them. Maybe he can help.”

“Don’t worry, Gianna is sweeter than pie,” Daisy smiled warmly, “but thank you.”

Along with her brothers and sister, Webby walked out of the door, but not before waving excitedly at Donald. A definite click sounded the second the door closed, leaving them in the room, alone, together.

“Daisy,” he quacked, standing straight. He smiled awkwardly and waved, “Hi.”

She covered her laugh with her hand. “Hi, Donald,” she moved to a chair, “let’s take a seat.”

He listened to her, returning to the chair he’d sat in while talking to Scrooge. He gulped and wondered when she’d start to shout at him, accuse him for nearly getting her daughter kill and explain that whatever they had couldn’t be for reasons he understood better than most people.

But Daisy didn’t do any of that. She inhaled, eyes closing to steady her thoughts and exhaled, leaving a smile on her face. 

“It’s good to see you again,” she laughed, then breathed. 

Donald’s brow furrowed, more out of surprise and confusion than anything else. “Yeah,” he nodded, coming around to this revelation, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

He laughed. 

She laughed.

For some time, they sat in comfortable silence, reconciling memory and present tense. Only when he cleared his throat did the ripple effect occur; yet, it wasn’t a disturbance. No, they weren’t disturbed.

Smiling at the other, they chuckled nervously - like bashful adolescents instead of the independent adults they’d matured to.

But for them, they couldn't have imagined a better scenario.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Donald and Scrooge's bonding moment was going to happen much earlier in the story, at around chapter two, but it didn't fit at the time. Originally, HE was going to have the Gyro scene, which would've been fun but not exactly what I was looking for in their relationship. There are snippets of their relationship, as to what it used to be, but the show hasn't gotten into it much yet. I'm remaining hopeful.
> 
> Thelma's biological father (who definitely knows she exists NOW) is a sky pirate. He loves to sing. A lot. She's actually in theater at school. There's a reason Della was crying about losing her babies and getting attached to the puppies, who were safely returned to their teacher.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and feedback is greatly appreciated.


	9. What Trouble Brought and Kept

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update! Had trouble writing this chapter, which led to writer's block, which led to other things, but at last, we've arrived to the sweet Donald and Daisy goodness we've all been waiting for. This chapter is a little saucy, but not TOO saucy. Appropriate for the T rating.

_Smaller,_ the measurements rolled idly in her thoughts as Daisy scrutinized the room. C _ould use a touch up, small windows and lighter colors,_ she frowned thoughtfully. She couldn’t imagine anyone, let alone the richest duck in the world, being able to conduct meetings under these conditions.

Spinning in the swivel chair, she spread her legs in a decisively unladylike manner. Smaller, the offensive thought, arrived three seconds following the children’s exit and was the perfect distraction as she searched for something to say.

Silence was deafening, and she didn’t think he was up to task at ending it. Clearing her throat, she spun at him. “I’m glad you’re not hurt,” she smiled, surprised her first response was that. What she marveled at was the sincerity in her words. She was relieved he was safe and sound, no worse for wear.

Rosy bushes bloomed on his cheeks. “Thanks,” he scratched his neck, glancing at the empty bowl on the table, “and Dahlia, Daffodil? Are they okay?”

“A little dirty,” she said, folding her hands. “Dahlia’s down for her nap, and Daffodil’s probably on her way too. But Vinny,” she paused, amused rather than disappointed. “He’s mourning his car.”

“Oh,” Donald nodded, without understanding. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be. He’s an ass.”

He laughed, a little shaky. She could hear he wasn’t sure this was something he should be laughing at but was taking a risk. To reassure him, she followed - weak, thinly but genuine. Vinny’s grief amused her, was the only thing that could amuse her at the time, and she leaned back in the chair, abandoning every posture lesson she’d ever learned. 

It was needed, though, and she realized it. A soft, gentle break - a pause, even - to help them forget everything that transpired in less than twenty-four hours. But as she sunk in the semi-comfortable chair, Daisy wondered aloud. 

“Is it always like this with your family?”

Seated in a forward position, back hunched and right palm cradling his temple, Donald glanced at her. He debated his answer for several seconds; she could spot the tension on the folds of his brow. And at last, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said lamely. There was no shame. No anger. No other emotion except exhaustion, but then, he laughed. “Yeah, it’s kind of our thing. Adventure and mishap.”

“And money,” she grinned.

He returned her grin, guffawing softly. “Oh no,” he fell back in the chair, propping his feet on the table. The bowl skidded to the middle of the table. “That’s Uncle Scrooge. We’re just there for the ride and work experience.”

“So, do you get paid?”

Hands entwined over his stomach, he scoffed. “Louie would love it.”

“And Louie is…”

“Green hoodie.”

“Ah, the mastermind,” she chuckled. At Donald’s inquisitive stare, she blushed, “They found me at Foxtails Alterations. Did you know?”

"About what?"

"Your kids' plan."

"Oh," he rubbed his neck. "Um...no?"

Daisy scrutinized him silently.

"Honest," he raised his hands in defense. "They told me moments before you arrived. It was a surprise meant for us." Unlike any other time, his children's antics didn't incense or cool Donald. “I’m proud.”

She returned the gesture, “I expected that.” In retrospect, she couldn't find anything _wrong_ with the children’s hunt. A little concerting how easy it was for them to locate her but nothing that'd keep her up at night. “You must be pretty amazing for them to go through all that trouble,” she added.

“Huh.” He stared ahead, surprise written on his face. Daisy would’ve laughed if it wasn’t so sad. “I guess,” he chuckled, “I guess I am. Who would’ve thunk?”

It was hard. Hard for them both; the fact they were in the beginnings of what could be the greatest love story told mattered little. Daisy shifted in her chair, wheeling closer to Donald. 

“Duckburg is insane. Absolutely insane,” she massaged her temples, expelling a sigh, “and I was terrified raising my daughter here. Who in their right mind would raise their child willingly, but I had to consider my options.”

“Options?”

Cynicism softened the smile on her face. “Oh, you know,” she rested her elbow on the arm of the chair, tucking her cheek over her knuckles, “Glamour...my career...ultimately, my life entered a stalemate before she was born.” 

Gratefully, Donald held his tongue. Only his eyes told her she was safe to continue. No judgment. No criticism. “I’d have to live the life of a working mother, and I was afraid I’d fail.”

“You didn’t.”

Daisy laughed, a hoarse laugh. “Thank you, but after today,” she crossed her arms, “how do you do it, Donald? Your family is one of the most infamous families on the planet, and your kids seem well adjusted.”

“It didn’t come easily,” he chuckled. “I spent ten years trying to keep them from the world. Eventually, well," he sighed, shoulders deflating, "I had to accept that I couldn't keep them from the world no more than I could keep the world from them. One morning, I accepted this was my life now."

"And is it it easy?"

Donald snorted, wrapping an arm around his waist. "You're smart Daisy," he wheezed. "It's never easy when you're a parent."

All was strange and normal at the same time. Neither knew what was the best way to describe it. When they stared at each other for too long, blood rushed visibly to their cheeks, and they looked away, embarrassed. But something compelled them to return. 

“I’d like to know more,” she found her voice again, “I’d like to know more about you, specifically and me...I mean, I want you to know more about me. Outside Dahlia. And fashion.”

Enthusiasm, _no_ , hope flooded Donald, and he straightened, wheeling his chair closer to her. “I want to know more about you, and I want you to know more about me...outside the kids and my uncle’s insanity,” he reached for her hand. 

Her peripheral vision detected the action, but foremost, she anticipated this response. He wasn’t an entirely unreadable man. She received him warmly, clasping her hand on top of him, squeezing it reassuringly. “How about Saturday afternoon,” she offered. “Off day, brother will be home from offshore.”

“You want me to meet your brother?”

“You’ve already met my sister.”

“I wanted to apologize about that.”

“What,” Daisy dismissed. “She adores you. I assure you she’s in the process of planning our wedding.” 

Donald didn’t hear the sentence entirely. At the sound of Daffodil, of sister, his brain raced to that horrible moment. “I thought she was you, but I should’ve known when she didn’t respond to the kiss,” he blurted aloud.

“What,” she squinted, raising her other hand to pause him. “Wait...hold on, what did you say?”

Beads of sweat rolled off his scalp. He might’ve blamed the poor air circulation in the room as a result of Scrooge’s cutting corners for air conditioners, but the truth was much more suffocating. “Uh…,” he trailed off, chest constricting painfully, “I thought you knew.”

He didn’t register the shade shadowing her face. He did, however, noticed the pressure suddenly surrounding his hand; a downward glance explained everything. Her grip tightened. Not painfully but noticeably. Firm, demanding and Donald liked to think misdirected. 

Caution held his tongue, reminding him his habit of putting his foot in his mouth would result in a worse outcome. Sitting idly, grip twisted in hers, he observed a hurricane of emotions take over her face. Anger. Shock. Grief. Then anger again. All the while, he prayed silently she wouldn’t break the bones in his hand. 

“You kissed my sister,” she repeated, numbly. But Donald heard the heat under every word, and he flinched at the statement. “You kissed my sister.”

“I thought she was you.”

Daisy’s eyes narrowed in a suspiciously feline manner. “She didn’t tell me that,” she hissed, grumbling moreso to herself than him. “Why didn’t she tell me? We were in the car for at least an hour, and she didn’t think to tell me?”

“In hindsight, she was probably aiming for me to tell you,” Donald suggested, wincing.

“Huh.” Without reason, she relented her hold and softened. Her clasp remained firm, determined to keep him close but drew back some of its ire. Contemplation etched softly at the corner of her eyes, and she smacked her mouth. “Yeah,” laughter barked out, and she inhaled, chest filling in, “she did exactly that. Hates telling me bad news, says I’d quack off at the drop of a hat.”

“Is she right?”

“Yes, but she still should’ve told me,” Daisy pointed out. “She’s my sister. Sisters before mister isn’t said for the fun of it, and most importantly -,”

Her rambling was muffled by his mouth, and instantly, she pushed back, putting force into the kiss that wasn’t present earlier. He caved to the gesture, not complaining as she relinquished possession of his hand and cupped his cheeks, mumbling sweetly as wheels squeaked warningly underneath them.

An arm wrapped around her waist, obliging her closer to the man, and she laughed when his mouth left hers to trail down her neck. He didn’t move quickly or slowly, taking his time to press a kiss on every spot on her neck. She stretched, moving to the side for more access, and stopped only when he brushed against the area near her earlobe, lightly blowing inside.

Breathless, she suppressed a groan as she pulled back. Hand curled around the back of his neck and gripping his shoulder, she closed her eyes and swallowed. Collecting her thoughts was almost impossible in this state; arousal bubbled in her stomach. She shook her head, gasping, and met his stare with a slight chuckle.

“Three things,” she rasped.

He nodded mutely.

“One, put me on the table. We are going to fall in these chairs, and neither of us want to explain to a group of kids as to _why_ we're tangled on the floor. Two, do not kiss my sister again. Okay? I don’t think I need to make that clear. This is a one time mistake. And three,” she closed her eyes, lowered her head just to raise it again, “are you sure you want to make out in your uncle’s office? I’m sorry. I needed to ask.”

Restraint expanded his lungs in a deep inhale. He nodded, formulating his actions into words. "One, no one wants to explain to a group of children of what's about to happen in this boardroom. Two, I don’t want to and will not kiss your sister. Again. Ever. You’ve made it clear. And three,” he grinned, brushing his beak against hers, “Scrooge McDuck can afford a new table."

With the grace of a dancer, he swung his arm around her waist and lifted her. Taken by surprise, feverish laughter bubbled out of her mouth; she curled her arms around his neck. His forehead touched her bangs, and she didn’t react at the thought of her styled bangs falling out of place. She pressed into him, melted him, and giggled into the kiss she gave, repeating his name as her fingers roamed his scalp. 

Her back touched the table, and shivers popped, exploding across exposed skin. But as his touch climbed up her thigh, the world itself began to fade, a faraway island in the distance. Legs crossed around his torso, prompting his weight completely on top of her, but there wasn’t any discomfort. Just deepening kisses and the moans tossed every other second. As other sounds pooled, they didn’t think about the chaos brewing below them, or of children or pesky sisters or stingy uncles or irate foxes.

Laughter, moans and shuddering breaths occupied their thoughts in that instant, and what a magnificently long instant it was.

* * *

Hand in hand, they made their way downstairs, and how they talked. Her parents and siblings. His parents and sister. He rubbed her knuckles. She tickled his palm. Cheeks were flushed, and they were more than a little breathless. 

Of course, sounds ahead concerned them, but caught in the other’s attention made them sound much more distant than they were. At the bottom of the stairwell, they waited several seconds, sitting on the last steps.

He sighed. “Outside that door is a battlefield,” he grinned. “Are you ready for it?”

Daisy laughed. “Oh, please,” she shoved him teasingly, sitting next to him, “did you not see what I did to that thug?”

“I did,” he smiled. The memory was stamped in his memory, “How’d you learn to fight like that?”

“Both sides of the family have terrible tempers,” she rolled her eyes. “It was always my parents’ greatest wish we’d have the tools for survival, and that includes knowing how to throw down.”

He snorted, chuckling weakly. “It sounds a lot like my parents,” or what he could remember from them, so blurry from age. “Or at least Scrooge and his ex.”

“Oh,” she tucked her wrist under her chin. “Will I get to meet her?”

“It’s possible you already did,” he admitted. “Has any jewelry gone missing?”

She squinted at him, confused, “No, why?”

He chuckled, patting her hand. “My family’s insane,” he swallowed, gazing at her. “Can you live with their insanity.”

“I can live with yours,” her head fell on his shoulder. “As long as you can live with mine, but don’t you think we’re jumping ahead.”

“I dunno,” Donald chuckled wanly. “It’s been a while, and I want you to be prepared.”

Flowers swirled out of her mouth in the shape of laughter, and she leaned into him, pressing her mouth to his cheek. “Oh, I am more than prepared, Donald Duck,” she whispered slyly. “Now, come on, it’s time for you to introduce me to your family, and...mine.”

“Yeah,” he winced. “Sorry about that.”

“You are forgiven,” she teased, guiding him up, “but Daffodil and I are going to have a long talk about that. How could she not tell me?”

He reciprocated her smile and optimism. His family was insane through and through, but they were also brave, understanding and loving. After all, his kids went through so much trouble to bring them together. To not try would be a waste of his efforts and Daisy’s time. Arm in arm, they walked to the door and was ready to take on whatever life was going to throw at them.

* * *

“You have some nerve!”

“You’re wrong, toots! I’ve got a lot of nerve!”

It was a sight to behold but not necessarily a surprising one.

Holding hands, Donald and Daisy gawked at the sights before them. Although a cleaning team mitigated the wreckage - expertly trained to minimize his uncle’s exploits - several things were happening at once. Daisy’s head swiveled her the right to where the receptionist desk was, where a woman dressed in a pilot’s uniform cradled Dahlia. 

Daffodil was nearby, arm resting on the desk. Catching sight of them, she grinned and waved, then returned to Della in conversation Daisy’s ears couldn’t pick up on. 

But she wasn’t nervous. From what Donald explained, Della was impulsive and stubborn yet had reeled those traits in ever since returning from the stars. Besides, she was standing right there. If something did go wrong, again, she’d be right there to help fix it. 

“Why is your cousin,” she turned to him - half positive the Duck Vinny argued with was in fact Donald’s cousin, “arguing with Vinny?”

Donald squinted in their direction. Opal was in the middle of an argument, a favorite activity of hers in some scenarios, but he didn’t think she was the aggravator. “No, she’s keeping Scrooge from Vinny,” he motioned to her arms - wrapped around Scrooge’s torso. Scrooge waved his cane furiously at the _vulpes vulpes_ \- who now wielded a mallet three sizes larger than his head.

“Should we stop them?”

Donald debated. “No,” he responded slowly, shifting his attention to the receptionist desk. He squeezed her hand, smiling, “I’d rather get formally acquainted with Dahlia.”

“Oh, really,” she chuckled. “I think you’d have to get in line after your sister.”

“She’ll definitely fight you for her,” Donald laughed.

“Ha, good one.”

“No, I’m serious,” Donald faced her. “It’s been over twelve years since she’s held a baby. Can’t get enough of them.”

“Oh.”

It hadn’t occurred to Daisy that Dahlia was more than half through the toddler stage. The realization was a bucket of water over her head and meditating on the reality, she squeezed Donald’s hand even tighter. Not as a warning, but for support.

“I think it’s about time I got acquainted with the elusive Della Duck,” she leaned over, speaking in an aside. Yet, the twinkle in her eye burned brighter than the sun.

Donald gulped. “Don’t let her intimidate you,” he stretched his neck. Nervousness started to bubble. 

“Oh, please, I can handle -,”

“She’s just a lot. That’s all.”

She cupped his cheek, “Oh Donald, your family isn’t the only crazy family in Duckburg, you know.” Her feet started moving, and his fell in step next to hers.

“And the kids?”

“I want to make a better impression on them,” she whispered, fighting to keep her line of vision not at all directed to the damaged car and its irate owner, who had propelled himself atop a one Scrooge McDuck.

* * *

As for the children, the children weren’t huddled so closely to the receptionist desk, neither were they near the destroyed entrance and scuffle their Aunt Opal was in the middle of disrupting. Louie fell to the floor, back sliding down the wall, with his hands tucked in his pocket. The others were in similar positions.

Webby reclined on Thelma’s left shoulder while Louie occupied her right. Dewey was on the path towards a nap on Thelma’s lap. There was just enough space for Webby to rest on the other side of her lap beside Dewey. Exhausted, pleased but exhausted, the day had gone neither worse or better than anticipated; however, as Louie gazed across the room where his uncle and not yet but would be soon girlfriend spoke to their mom.

“Good work, Louie,” Thelma murmured. Her thick, auburn hair cushioned both sides, “It really came together for Uncle Dee.”

Louie scoffed, “The evil robot was an unknown unknown and known.”

That earned him a group of weak chuckles. “Yeah, sure, but none of this would’ve been possible if not for you,” Huey agreed. “I’m proud of you, Louie.”

“Proud of what?”

“For being selfless,” Webby answered, eyes closed and grinning. “You did this for Uncle Donald. Not monetary gain.”

Louie snorted. “Come on,” he grinned, eyes half-lidded, “our soon to be aunt is going to be a world renowned fashion designer someday.”

A collective groan answered him, but Dewey dove in with the save. Tilting his head back, he smirked at his younger brother. “Sure, but we know you’re already planning the venue for the wedding,” he joked.

“I thought Huey took up the job,” Thelma teased.

“As if I could come up with an appropriate wedding theme in less than a day,” he complained, then paused, thoughtful. “I can come up with something today. Just an idea.”

“Oh,” Webby squealed. “I’ve got seventeen. Lena, Violet and I were drafting proposal ideas.”

“What if Donald doesn’t propose?”

“A woman can,” Webby booped his beak.

Louie sighed, satisfied and content. His family, crazy as they were, was whole and growing. Resting on his sister’s thick hill of hair, a vibration rumbled in his pocket. He checked his phone; the notification was bright in white. 

“How it went, Sharpie,” the message read.

Smirking, he chanced a glance where his Uncle Scrooge was successfully removed off the fallen tailor. “A little sideways, but everything’s good,” he replied hastily. “Thanks for the ring.”

A wave of bubbles rolled until another message appeared, “No problem, kid. Pilfered it off a sourdough back in Dawson.”

Amused, Louie scoffed and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He’d reply later. For now, he wanted to bask in his success, nap included.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue and we're done! I've had a lot of fun writing this story, and I certainly hope you've enjoyed reading it. Again, all feedback is appreciated.


	10. Epilogue: She is Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the end. 
> 
> The end.
> 
> It's been trouble, but the trouble was worth it!

Dahlia liked her birthday.

She liked her birthday a lot.

She did not like waiting, at least, not on her birthday.

But did she know what a birthday was? Did she understand the day commemorated the anniversary of her birth? Yes and no. 

Like most two year olds, Dahlia grasped the day was _big_ , for she’d listened to her mommy plan and plan, shouting _big people_ words into her phone. Her mommy didn’t know Dahlia listened. She didn’t know her toddler absorbed the bs, fs and s words, foreign and indescribable in her limited vocabulary, but Dahlia had. And she could tell they were important.

 _The party at the mansion is for family_... _the party at the center is for connections_...Mommy emphasized, pacing across the living room. Dahlia was tucked in Aunt Daffodil’s lap, gnawing thoughtfully on her favorite teething ring.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled in her toddler babble. “Mommy sounded very upset, but I know it’s serious. She doesn’t use big people's words when it’s not.”

Kara, Kenny and Harper frowned, sharing uneasy glances, though the twins seemed more willing to hear their friend out. “What ya’ mean, Dolly,” they asked.

It was hard to say, hard to describe, and with her limited vocabulary, she didn’t know where to start. But she tried. “I went into my mommy’s purse,” she fell down on her pamper, “and I found this smooth, gold ring.”

“Ya did?”

She nodded gravely. “And there were papers,” she crossed her arms, “and I saw these big words on it. But I don’t know.”

“What did the letters say,” Harper prodded, thumb in his mouth with his ears pressed flatly on his skull. 

Her brow furrowed, and her frown deepened. “I know most of my letters,” she said, thoughtfully. “But I don’t think I’d be saying them right, not like Daddy does.”

“Try,” her friends pushed.

“Um...A...D...O...P..C…,” she shook her head. “No. I saw a T. I. O. N.” She shrugged, raising her hands helplessly, “Got any idea what it means?”

“Adoption.”

Four heads jerked upwards and found the source of the fifth voice. A little girl, not much older than they but standing upright with her black hair in thick pigtails, grinned down at them. Her prominent buck teeth, a canine on each side of her mouth, reflected a sweetness unknown to them, neither false nor cruel.

“Adoption,” they repeated.

“Yep,” she nodded. “It means you’re getting a new family member.”

“But Glory,” Harper said, “Dahlia already has a family.”

“Uh huh,” the twins chimed.

Dahlia was silent, waiting for the older girl to explain. Glory loved to explain things, and sometimes, that was a good thing. 

She tapped her mouth, searching her brain for the right words. “For us, adoption was when we got a new doggy and kitty,” she started. “Mommy wanted a dog. Daddy wanted a kitty. So we got both.”

“Are you getting a new pet,” Harper turned to Dahlia.  
  
“No, Mommy says she already has two jobs, me and Glamour,” she shook her head, disappointed. She didn’t mind having a puppy.

Glory chuckled, “It doesn’t have to be a new pet.”  
“What?”

“Uh huh,” she clasped her wrist behind her back. “My friend Bianca was adopted by her mommy and daddy. They wanted a baby, and they got a baby. She said it was very easy.”

“So her real mommy and daddy gave her up?”

Glory’s muzzle frizzled. “What did Bianca say,” she pondered. “She said her real mommy is the mommy who kisses her good night and feeds her apples. That’s Mrs. Jessica. Her real daddy is the daddy who tells her jokes and kisses her booboos. Her other mommy and daddy couldn’t take care of her, so she was given to her mommy and daddy who could!”

“But my mommy can take care of me,” she pinched the lace of her dress. “I’ve got a good mommy and a good daddy.” Of course, her daddy wasn’t always there. It used to be just her mommy, auntie, uncle, cousins and Dahlia. She didn’t see a problem with that setup.

What did this mean? Doubt trickled in. Was her mommy not able to take care of her anymore? Was her mommy going to give her away? 

Sensing she had misspoke, Glory moved to comfort Dahlia, but suddenly, her name was called. A tall, slender yet wide hipped woman swayed into the room. Her heart shaped red hair bounced with every step.

“Glory, there you are,” she set her hands on her hips, tsking. “We’ve been looking for you. Your father needs your help with the cameras.”

“I was just watching the babies,” she pouted. “I was teaching them about adoption.”

“Adoption?” 

Her mommy flickered between child and toddler, then chuckled. “Oh sweetie, they’re babies,” she kneeled down, resting a hand on Glory’s shoulder, “they don’t understand what adoption means.”

“But Bianca said -,”

“And we don’t want to spoil the surprise,” her mommy gave her a stare that immediately set Glory’s shoulders into a slump. “Come along, your father’s probably tangled up in reels, and I don’t have the patience for Scrooge McDuck charging us for damages.”

Disappointed, Glory obeyed, “Yes, Mommy.”

Waving goodbye, Glory disappeared around the corner, and the toddlers pressed their faces along the playpen walls. Able to see a small portion of the movement going on, which was particularly active for the mansion - Dahlia noted she understood the activity was connected to her birthday. Her big day. But from what Glory’s mommy said, it wasn’t just her big day either.

It did no good sitting and waiting. “I’m not leaving my mommy and daddy,” she announced, burying her hand underneath her skirts. She found her plastic screwdriver and waddled to the hook of the playpen while her friends kept lookout.

“Dahlia,” Harper squeaked, “maybe, we should wait.”

“Wait for what,” she wiggled for several seconds. The lock gave way easily, “I don’t have time to wait. I can’t lose my mommy and daddy.” Seeing the area was clear, she hurried to the foyer where the stairs waited. Her mommy and daddy had gone upstairs, she remembered, and she knew the mansion well enough by now. Kara and Kenny didn’t wait, giggling quietly to meet their friend. 

Harper hesitated, withholding any immediate comment. His friends rarely gave notice to his fears and concerns; after a moment to bemoan his fortune, he chased after them. But then slid across the floor, so far he ended up entering the kitchen.

Which was normal for him.

* * *

“Who knew a Beagle could bake.”

Louie smirked at the grin Bette whipped at him but said nothing. “A Beagle can do more than steal,” she replied defensively, resting comfortably on Bouncer’s shoulder. “Uncle Bouncer is an expert chef.”

“I guess,” though that didn’t give Bouncer justice. His pastries and treats were the tastiest Louie had ever eaten. Even his hot dogs sent his taste buds into a fury. “Daisy’s paying you top dollar, and you’re getting mad cred for doing the second party too,” he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Ah, it ain’t nothing,” Bouncer replied, concentrating on the batter. “Just wanted to make some tea biscuits for the kiddies. Legal said this will look good too.” 

Bette hopped off his shoulder, arms crossed and dressed appropriately for the occasion. Her braided hair was bounded in a top knot bun; rainbow beads adorned her hair, highlighting the brownness of her eyes. She marched to him, jabbing her finger into his chest and sneered.

“You’re gonna regret questioning his skills,” she smirked. “You’re probably gonna eat all the tea biscuits.” She leaned back, spreading her arms in mockery. 

“Bette, be nice,” Bouncer warned. “We don’t wanna start trouble.”

In a corner, Burger grunted his assent.

Smirking at this turn of events, “Well, well, how the tables have turned. Who would’ve thunk Beagle Boys would be making the food for our sweet Dahlia’s birthday party.”

“Legal and Daisy,” Bette replied dryly, rolling her eyes. “Also, I’m sure your housekeeper is watching us.” She pointed to the cameras stationed in each corner of the room, “Why else do you think I’m here?”

“An alibi?”

“Whatever,” she drawled. Her head turned aside, and her black, button nose twitched. “Hold the gator tail,” she clipped sharply, grabbing Louie’s arm. “You smell that?”

“Uh...delicious food?”

“Yes but no,” shoving him away, she narrowed to the floor and pointed, “that right there.” Cowering in the corner was something small and furry, dressed in a plaid shirt and blue jeans. Louie peeked over her shoulder, curious and calm, but at the sight of the small creature, his heart throbbed.

His brow furrowed.

Something was amiss.

“Wait,” he grabbed Bette’s shoulder. “That’s one of Dahlia’s playmates.”

Looking back at him, “Playmate? Why’s he in the kitchen?”

It struck Louie right then, right there. Almost immediately. Like a bolt of lightning. His feathers paled. His stomach bubbled. He reached for the walkie-talkie in his pocket and brought it to his mouth. He pressed the button and heard static crackle back until a voice whipped in.

“Maned Wolf on the line.”

Louie groaned. “Thelma, just because your dad happens to be a nefarious sky pirate who happens to be a maned wolf doesn’t mean -,”

“What’s the problem,” she asked, annoyed.

“We’ve got wanderers.”

Seriousness flipped on a dime. "Got it," she assured. Calling to the others in the room, "Webby, Dewey, bottom floor. Huey and I will search the second floor."

Bette stared at him, questioning what sort of system they’ve made. “So…,” she waited, head tilted in such a way indicating she knew she was going to get wrapped up in something beyond her control, “am I supposed to stay in the kitchen or what?”

“Grab the bunny.”

“I ain’t grabbin’ no bunny,” she snapped back. “Burger, catch the bunny. We gotta find the other babies.”

Burger huffed quietly, arms crossed.

Bette groaned.

“Sorry,” she scuffed her fancy dress shoe. “Burger, can you help me catch the bunny, please? I don’t wanna get baby poop on my hands.”

He nodded.

“Alright,” she motioned at Louie. “Go on and find the others. We’re gonna snare a hare.”

Louie was already out the door, but shouted over his shoulder, “Please don’t say things like that.” A million and one potential spots raced through his mind as to where Dahlia could’ve gone. He didn’t stop near the foyer, knowing where they should’ve been but obviously wasn’t.

As long as Uncle Donald and Aunt Daisy didn’t find out, was a compass pointing straight in his mind. His aunt and uncle’s ignorance was of the utmost importance.

* * *

Goldie liked parties. 

Goldie liked birthday parties, as long as it wasn’t hers.

Strapped to the throne, Goldie debated her options. The party she was so kindly invited to was not her own. In fact, she hadn’t met the mother of the birthday girl and wasn’t inclined to meet her if this was the welcome she was fated to receive. However, she realized her options were ridiculously stunted. Unable to rise. Unable to move. She was trapped on the chair, which Goldie realized was not a mere swivel chair as she guessed but something much more nefarious.  
Annoyed but not upset, she rolled her eyes. “I don’t want to know how you got Hera’s throne,” she drawled, stretching her neck. 

“Bargained it off of Hephaestus when I worked for C.L.U.T.C.H.” Opal reclined in an actual swivel chair, slouched in a most unladylike position, “Trust me, if I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t be using it on you.”

Goldie shouldered a glare to the man seated behind his desk. “And you approved of this,” she smirked. “I can’t say I’m not proud.”

“Goldie,” Scrooge groaned. “All we’re asking is for you to make a phone call.”

“A phone call,” she scoffed. “You want me to make a deal with the devil.”

Opal’s eyelids fluttered. “We want you to just talk to her,” she leaned forward, pressing her hands together in a pleading motion. “She won’t agree to perform for the party unless you’re asking.”

Goldie beak clicked as her head tilted, and she scrutinized her lover and daughter. “You want me to ask Rose O’Gilt for a performance,” she surmised. Her right eye twitched.

Opal and Scrooge exchanged uneasy stares. It was dangerous for Goldie to speak the name aloud, and the fact she was currently trapped in Hera’s cursed throne meant

“Mommy, -,”

“Don’t Mommy me,” Goldie sneered.

“It's for Daisy,” Opal spread her arms, then stood. She approached slowly, cautiously - ever so watchful of Goldie’s hands and feet. Goldie might’ve called her approach apologetic, if not for the fact she was stuck to a throne disguised as a swivel chair,“Just talk to Aunt Rose, all we need is one performance.”

“You know that's not Rose's way,” Goldie scowled. It all seemed so easy, so simply to her bright eyed, optimistic child. “I’ll have to concede in some areas that I cannot possibly do.”

“Like calling her Dolly?”

“Yes, that is one.”

“And admitting she totally did write _Gold Gets in My Eye…_ ”

Goldie’s left eye twitch, “You know she didn’t.”

“Mommy, I know,” Opal kneeled at her side. Her impossibly large and transparent, bluish green eyes danced for her. “I know she stole your songs, claimed copyrights on them and added to her already incredible fortune,” she nodded, doing her best not to frown or seem too sweet, “and I know she is never going to forgive you for everything else you’ve done.”

“Fair enough,” Goldie admitted. “I sold her first guitar to a gator hunter in Florida.”

“Right.” Opal ruffled, then inhaled. What she was about to say was serious, Goldie guessed, and was most likely the trump card she was holding onto. “Mummy, if you speak to Rose O’Gilt a.k.a Dolly Patridge, regardless of whether or not she accepts, I'll personally take you the Shangri-La Spa & Resort.”

“What,” Goldie jerked involuntarily. Her muscles contracted and resisted all the while her brain processed the newfound information. She never doubted Opal’s love and affection for her. A clash of ideals and morals be damned, Goldie’s girl loved her - though she had a rough time showing. However, Goldie was realistic, and realism required her to think rationally. Opal loved her, but didn’t love her that much. Not enough to acquiescence her collection of prized, rare and golden Shangri-La Spa & Resort free pass tickets.

Using the limited movement allowed, she concentrated her attention entirely on the single egg she laid and hatched. Scrooge was a spec in her peripheral vision. Forgot. Discarded. Himalaya Spa & Resort chanted in a heavenly choir in her head. She tried to speak but found no words came out, and she blushed, embarrassed at her childish gaiety. It could be excused. This was the Shangri-La Spa & Resort, the most inclusive resort known in the nine realms. No normal person was able to afford their prices, let alone acquire an all free pass ticket, so how did Opal?  
  
“Lily,” Goldie squinted, stare pinching towards infernal slits. It was sufficient enough that father and daughter inhaled wearily. "You said you gave them to her as a gift."

“I lied.”

“Rage and pride fight against each other in my soul right now.”

Opal ran her fingers through her hair, irritating the curls she’d forgotten to flat iron. “Yes, yes, when you and Aunt Rose were making your bets,” Opal emphasized, casting an unwarranted oomph on bets, “Aunt Lily recommended for me to put in a stake or two.”

“You were seven.”

Scrooge stepped forward, arms crossed. “You sent our seven year old bairn to a _what_ ,” Scrooge complained.

"Blackjack Saloon," Goldie said.

"What," Scrooge hissed.

"A botched time travel plan," Goldie sighed. "Don't worry, Scroogey, Opal held her own against Soapy."

"Bless me bagpipes, she was seven."

If there was anything unique about Scrooge, Goldie would say how crinkly his brow folded whenever he was displeased. Glancing at Opal, the resemblance was what some would call uncanny. “Goldie,” he continued, “she was a child and had no business being around those rambunctious ruffians, let alone Slick.”

Contrite was what Scrooge was probably searching for on her face; they knew each other too well to expect such an expression from Goldie. And she couldn’t. Not in that moment. Cocking her head at her daughter, she studied the woman dressed in the spring time dress, and smirked. “Our seven year old calculated and won a set of Shangri-La Spa & Resort free pass tickets,” pride wasn’t what she was searching for. Yet, Goldie wasn't going to dismiss it entirely. “And now, you’re bargaining it, so I can…”

“Ask your sister to perform at your nephew’s daughter’s second birthday party to help his girlfriend’s career.”

“Huh,” she rolled her eyes. “Sounds positively saccharine when you put it like that.”

“I think it’s called being selfless,” Opal replied.

Goldie shrugged, “It sounds like you’re putting me in an impossible situation, which I must say is mighty sharp of you, dear.”

“I don’t know if I should accept the compliment.”

“Considering this is the last time you’ll be hearing a compliment from me,” Goldie chuckled. “You should take it.”

Annoyed, Scrooge clasped his cane. "Don't listen to her," he said in an aside. "She'll probably sob over your baby photos when you leave the room."

“What?”

Goldie blushed. “Fine,” she spat. “Just set the phone on speaker.” If she was going to do this, she needed to make sure there were witnesses. Being held responsible for her sister’s pettiness wasn’t in her game plan; however, Goldie knew her pettiness was a powerful distraction when required. But it was not required. Not today. And how? She squinted behind Scrooge and Opal and saw a group of three - a duckling and two pups.

And she smirked.

“What,” Opal twitched. Halfway through dialing the number, she and her father noticed the turn of her mouth, the smugness in her eyes. “Why are you smiling?”

Goldie hummed, “Oh, no reason.”

Indeed, the reason was present - or rather, was fleeting in its existence. Scrooge whirled in the opposite direction, sensing to follow her direction and spotted the second pup hurrying behind its twin. Opal, noticing the change in her parents’ demeanor, whipped between them - oblivious and suddenly concerned.

“Oh no,” Scrooge groaned.

“What?”

He spun completely, agitation shifting to concern. “The wee bairns have escaped,” he swallowed.

“Again?”

“Call Rose,” Scrooge commanded. He moved so quickly, so sprightly for a man of his age that Opal didn’t get a chance to frown at the instruction. All she could and did do was return to Goldie, sitting squarely in the chair.

The corners of her mouth perked, “You’ve got a little black fur on your dress, dear.”

Opal pushed the phone to the face - a big breasted, strawberry blond and emerald eyed singer stared back.

“Just talk,” she clenched. 

With an arched brow, Goldie sighed and let the phone ring, scowling at the sound of a sing-song greeting.

* * *

Daisy paced. She paced more than she would’ve on a normal, Glamour induced afternoon. But the question was why?

Daisy liked throwing parties. In fact, some would say she loved throwing parties, and her parties, as described by one Roxanne Featherly, were of an enviable prodigious caliber. The only thing in the world that eclipsed this love for dazzling and showcasing was the love she held for Dahlia, her moon and stars.

So this posed a question, a question Daisy wasn’t equipped to answer. Why so anxious? Her checklist was marked to absolute perfection. Scrooge... _Uncle Scrooge_ , she corrected, negotiated a small fee for the party's location. The food - she tested every treat and appetizer - sent her taste-buds into a special delirium. Huey, Dewey, Louie and Webby coordinated decorations, using a sort of juvenile charm that amused and reassured Daisy. Vincenzo was the entertainment, and despite their ongoing rivalry, his budding comedy career was promising for the guests' amusement. Daffodil, Opal, Della and Penny were more or less security, though that wasn't necessary with Duckworth and Mrs. Beakley around.

So why?

_Why?_

Studying her reflection, Daisy spotted a bundle in the right corner, seated innocently in a King Louis XIV style chair. Her purse. Her heart skipped a beat. An inanimate object normally couldn’t hurt her, but in this family, that wasn’t necessarily true. Nonetheless, Daisy’s fears were cornered in what was in the purse, rather than the purse itself. 

“You’re nervous.”

She whipped to the disturbance, forgetting the purse and sighed. “Donald,” saying his name in a laugh that didn’t entirely fill her eyes, “I’ve told you about sneaking up on me.” To emphasize her point, she swiped her hand off her chest, stepping towards him with her arms open. Warmth welcomed her as she moved towards him; but as she moved, she noticed his hands. 

Hesitating in her stride, she paused and tilted her head, confusion drawn clearly. “Why are you wearing training pads,” she pointed.

Donald grinned. “You’re anxious, and when you’re anxious, you get angry. And when you get angry -,”

Daisy cut him off. “Yeah, yeah,” she rolled her eyes. “I get it, but no, I don’t need an extra training session. At least, not in your uncle’s home.”

“I’d rather you punch the pads than the wall.”

Always sensible, almost to an alarming degree - Daisy debated, arms crossed and scowl revealing her skepticism. Certainly, she didn’t want to be held responsible for any damages the house sustained, and as much as she knew Scrooge adored her, compensation would be forked out of her account.

“I’d rather punch the wall though,” Daisy pouted.  
  
“Punch the pad, dear.”

And she did.

With foreseeable speed and strength, the force pushed Donald back, and they chuckled devilishly. She spared another punch to the right, and then the left again, starting a rhythm he kept pace with. He met her every time, grinning and brow crinkled in such a way suggesting a desire for challenge.

“What is it,” he gritted his teeth.

Her muscles focused on the customary burn, and she focused on the burn too. “Just I don’t know,” she grunted, unwilling to confess the truth she kept too close to her heart. “I’m worried. Worried for the second party. Worried about ensuring this goes well. And...if…,” she started to heave, breath slowing, “am I using my kid for my career? What am I doing here?”

“You’re achieving your dream.”

“Using my kid to get there -,”

“No,” he caught her right hook. She could feel his fingers curl inward like a Venus flytrap, leaving her as the defenseless fly. “You’re achieving your dream to help her achieve hers in the future.”

He was good.

He was too good. 

A sharp intake of breath rattled her insides, and she found the fight to push tears back almost unbearable. She’d spill them. She’d save them for later, for the dark night ahead where they’d hold each other. An embrace was the most comparable description. Daisy would've preferred snarled. An ugly, dangerous word - snarled - but she knew this was the case for them. Snarled into each other and delirious in their happy bed that even the moon’s shade cannot penetrate the dome they’ve weaved.

That was not the time. It’d come, Daisy dreamt and prayed. _Just not here, not now_. Holding her balled fist in a grip adept at catching her blows. 

“Donald, thank you.”

“For what?”

“Everything.”

Everything failed to encompass all she wanted to say. Nonetheless, only aware of a small fragment of gratitude, he smiled. “Any time,” he peeked over her shoulder, suddenly frowning. “Hey, where’s your purse?”

“What?”

Donald gestured to the chair where her purse previously waited. “It isn’t there,” he checked various areas, “but I know it was there when I came in.”

Concerned in a less mundane manner - she doubted any normal person had stolen it in the mansion and was certain it was somewhere nearby - she moved to the bed, getting on her knees to scan under the bed. Donald moved to the dressing table when a crash and shout echoed.

Instantaneous was what it felt like, the manner in which their heads shot up and panic throbbed around their hearts. Wasting no time whispering the name that flung in their minds, they sprinted out of the room, clamoring in the hallway. Their gazes danced in each direction, spotting the disaster several feet ahead where a vase lay shattered. Flowers wasted breathed their last; yet, that was not the center of the attention.

Standing near, in a pretty pink and flowery dress, was a man holding a toddler. He was almost but not quite identical to Daisy. His feathers were a pure shade of white, and he wore a simple black leather jacket, concealing the stylish blouse underneath. His hair was similar to Daisy’s in that it possessed a natural buoyancy most ducks didn’t, combed, brushed and gelled into a striking pompadour look. 

That too wasn’t their center of attention. Handsome and aesthetically pleasing, his attention wasn’t on the broken vase or the concerned parents standing several feet away. They were on Dahlia, who he held with tenderness and grace. 

Appropriately dressed for the occasion, Dahlia clasped Daisy’s purse in one hand while staring at a sheet of paper in another. Her mouth moved slowly, quietly, but her face was pinched in what Donald and Daisy would’ve called precocious.

Aware what this meant, Daisy aimed to clench at the paper her girl held, but Donald rushed forward.

“My baby,” he shouted, throwing off the pads. “Oh Dolly, are you okay? Speak to me.”

The man scoffed, grinning, “Nice to see you too, Donald.”

“Hey, Dillon,” Daisy opened her arms, walking around the mess, “you didn’t tell me you were in.”

He shifted Dahlia on his hip, leaning into her embrace. “I wanted to keep it a surprise,” he chuckled. “Rosa and Zelda are downstairs.”

"Zelda?"

He made a sound in his throat, unclear to them. "You'll meet her at the party," he dipped into an embrace.

Daisy kissed his cheek, pacified, then saw Dahlia. “Little miss,” she set her hands on her hips. “Why did you take my purse?”

Whatever Dahlia was saying was lost as Donald tossed the pads and reached for her. “Oh, sweet baby,” he checked every inch of her little body free of cloth. “You’re not hurt?”

“No, Da,” she said, briefly regarding Donald with a gaze that was both too sweet and too knowing for a child of two. "You okay?"

He smoothed her hair, not once touching her pastel bow. "Yes, baby. I'm okay," he kissed the side of her brow. At ease, comforted knowing she was safe and sound, his attention strayed to the paper she was gripping firmly. For a two year old, seeing her brow pulled down in a lopsided triangle was humorous. Of course, this meant he had reason to investigate, as his girlfriend and her brother conversed. Daisy asked about Dillon's work, about his girlfriend, and he offered answers that weren't completely honest. Donald could tell in the way his mouth rolled and his eyes fidgeted. He couldn't tell his sister the truth. Not out of his mistrust, though. Daisy's role shifted from sister to mother in an instant, the second their mother's life spilled into the other world, and it was a role she shared with Daffodil, whose influence Daisy claimed exceeded her own.

Donald never believed that. He couldn't. Daisy blossomed in Dillon Duck as she blossomed in Dahlia. Aesthetically pleasing clothes and glistening styled hair spoke to a man dedicated to physical appearance, and this wasn't an innate desire but one nurtured. The woman standing near him, arm locked in his own, was responsible for this. Confidence. Kindness. He was raised alongside Daffodil's triplets, a brother rather than an uncle. Daisy and Daffodil raised the four of them, alternating in roles and supplanting aspirations for others, biding their time for the ripe hour. The boundaries of the nuclear family were obliterated in their realm, a consequence of age and experience. Very much like Donald's own family, he realized, holding the little girl he'd come to love as if he'd used half of his own blood to create her. 

"A - D - O - P - T," Dahlia recited. Unable to read, she repeated the letters on the paper she grasped, "A - D - O - P - T - I - O - N."

He didn't know how many times Dahlia mumbled the letters. She often did this whenever she wanted someone - usually Donald - to say the word for her, to break it down into a concept her tiny, baby mind could understand. It was probably the fifth or seventh time she said the letters. Growing impatient, she waved the paper in his face, snatching the longing gaze off of Daisy, currently in the middle of reprimanding her brother for wearing an eye-shadow hue that didn't compliment his complexion. 

"Alright, alright," Donald laughed, taking the sheet. "A - d - o - p - t," he didn't finish reading. He connected the letters into its final form, "Adoption, Consent to Adoption."

His average volume reached average ears.

Dillon's curled gaze, enigmatic as it was alluring to search his sister's face, which was now covered in small beads of sweat. Her cheeks were colored a dark, plump cherry. Her cheeks confirmed every single suspicion in Donald's mind; the canary in his chest sang a song bordering on what some would say was obscene. His grip on the child, on Dahlia - his child now and forever, tightened, and she grew impatient at his silence. Starting to pull at his collar, patting impatiently and frowning at his lack of a response, she started to whine, resorting to pulling at his cheeks.

Momentarily annoyed, a burning wrung around his eyes. "Is it," he swallowed, tentative. "Is it real?"

"I -," she began to say when a clamor of noise careened towards them. Daisy and Dillon jerked their gazes to the side where a group of children and adults running towards them, but Donald didn't configure them completely into his perspective. He saw Daisy. He saw his kids, each and every five of them. Five. The number was minor in most situations but could be major in others. This was one of those major situations. 

But before he could do anything, Daisy released her brother and stepped around, hopeful to conceal the tears now shining. She locked her arm around his eyes, discreetly taking the consent form into her grasp, and she smiled, brighter than stars. "We'll talk about it after the party," she reassured. "Only if you want to."

His throat ached. "Why wouldn't I," he murmured.

"I...," she stopped shortly. Whatever she wanted to say, whatever she wanted to do could not be done in front of an audience. Gripping his hand, entwining her fingers with his, she beamed at him, "How about we discuss over dinner?"

"Sure," he kissed her cheek. 

"Good," Scrooge said, more relieved than his slanted top hat conveyed, "you found the wee bairn."

"We were about to go to code purple," Webby said, sounding only the tiniest bit of disappointed, "but we're happy the birthday girl is okay."

"Code purple," Dillon asked.

"Dahlia unleashed Baba Yaga from her prison three months ago," Daisy explained.

"Ah."

He didn't get it.

But Donald suspected he would, in time, and tightening his hold around Daisy's touch, they looked forward, onward and beyond. 

A short distance away, Opal's shout echoed, "We've got Dolly Partridge for Saturday at noon!"

"Wait," Dewey whirled in the direction of his aunt. "What do you mean you've got Dolly Partridge for noon?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So long, farewell...for now...
> 
> I had so much fun writing this, and I hope you had fun reading it. I don't know when I'll include more stories in this universe, but I'm happy to have started it. 
> 
> All feedback is appreciated, and thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Dahlia was three in the previous one shot. I've aged her down to one for reasons that'll be made clear in a few chapters.
> 
> Violet, Webby and Lena serve the roles April, May and June previously played in regards to the boys, so making them children felt redundant. April, May and June are college aged adults. June attends Rockerduck University.
> 
> Donna was changed to Daffodil, though Donna Duck exists in this "continuity." 
> 
> When writing, Kath Soucie in the form of Dexter's Mom (Dexter's Laboratory) voices Daffodil. Yes, Soucie also voiced Daisy Duck in Quack Pack. She's more of a ditz than Daisy but has a temper, if not as bad as Daisy's.
> 
> As always, thank you and feedback is greatly appreciated.


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